


Victoria and the Assassins (WIP)

by glinda4thegood



Series: Victoria Winslow/Ivan Simanov Series [9]
Category: Philip McAlpine novels - Adam Diment, RED (2010), RED 2 (2013), The Contract (2006), Wild Target (2009)
Genre: Adventure, Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, Romance, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extraordinary people in extraordinary professions often find life takes extraordinary twists and turns.</p><p>Dramatis personae plus movie casting (*see end notes for credits)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Yet get in, you get done_  
_And then you get gone_  
_You never leave a trace_  
_Or show your face, you get gone_

_I was a killer, was the best they'd ever seen_  
_I'd steal your heart before you ever heard a thing_  
_I'm an assassin and I had a job to do_  
_Little did I know that girl was an assassin too_  
\- John Mayer 

**A THREE-PART CONTRACT IS OFFERED AND ACCEPTED**

"Your credentials: impeccable. The responses I received when placing inquiries with your references: enthusiastic." With his trademark thoroughness, Thierry Maimonides examined the man seated on the other side of the small table.

The luxurious interior space of Maimonides' jet could be differentiated from some snug private office only by the faint thrumm of powerful engines, and even that sound was nearly masked by whispering fans that filtered and moved air through the cabin. Except for the captain in the cockpit, they were alone: one of the world's richest men, and one of the world's most dangerous men.

"The fact I am cruising with you at 35,000 feet above the ground, between Dubai and London, means your credentials and references are likewise sound." 

P. D. James' voice was distinct, but unplaceable. He spoke English without discernible accent, reminding Maimonides slightly of that Star Trek android: delivery stilted, emphasis on word or syllable not what you expected, no emotion in his face, eyes, or voice. Maimonides, who had killed men after reading what their eyes had to say, was slightly unsettled by the vacancy of James' eyes.

"How much are you prepared to pay for this contract?"

Maimonides waved his hand toward the bar. "Would you care for a drink? Perhaps I should begin by outlining Incident complexities, before we talk price."

"Price first." 

Maimonides named a figure, expecting to see some reaction in James. There was none. The man's oddly pale, waxy textured flesh, his oddly colored helmet of hair which was not black, nor brown, nor gray but some blending of those three colors into a solid tree bark hue, increased the impression he was speaking with a robotic visitor.

"This contract is important to you. For that figure it will be as much personal as it is business. Your contract will have more than a single desired outcome." James tilted his head. "Revenge is a sucker's game. Walk away."

Good guess or good intel, Maimonides didn't know and didn't care. Old fury gnawed his gut. "The first part of the contract will be theft; the second part, kidnapping and exacted ransom; the third part, murder."

James tilted his head in the opposite direction. "I am listening."

 

**THE MAYNARDS AT HOME**

Victor and Rose Maynard sat under a pale sun in their garden, drank morning tea, and watched their youngest son with love and pride. Across the green expanse of lawn the lad in question stood like a statue, holding a recurve bow with a draw of 12 pounds.

"He looks like Cupid," Rose said.

"You emphasize beauty over function. He looks like a young hunter." 

Victor waved one of his hands in emphasis, the long, sensitive fingers with their well-manicured nails drawing Rose's attention away from her son. She loved her husband's hands. She loved all of him.

Bright morning light was kind to the tall, thin, precise man. Rose wondered how it treated her, but she was younger than her husband and even with Angel's birth still found no signs of advancing age when she looked in the mirror. After six years of marriage, Victor had a few more threads of white at his temples. It made him look dead sexy, she thought, and very distinguished. His body was still sinewy, strong and hard with muscle. Daily workouts with Tony, and to a lesser degree with Angel, kept him in peak condition. 

"My feet hurt today," she said, apparently at random. "When Tony gets back from the vet, he can keep Angel company."

Maynard raised an eyebrow and smiled a small, secret smile. "Of course, my dear. Oh, well done, my boy."

Angel reappeared from the bushes holding a rabbit. He had loosed a single shot at an unseen target.

"You don't need more than two, Angel. Tony will make rabbit stew for dinner. Don't leave a mess in the shed when you're done cleaning them," Rose said.

"Yes, mother." Angel ran swiftly past their table, grass-stained knees blurring like a hummingbird's wings, golden curls bouncing on his shoulders.

"It's time to cut his hair again, my love." Maynard took his wife's hand and kissed it, a courtly gesture perfectly in keeping with his severely tailored suit and his naturally formal demeanor. "Do you think it unusual that Tony took Snowball Two to the vet last night, and has not yet returned?"

"Not really. He did have a small errand to run last night." Rose patted Maynard's cheek, then began to apply marmalade to toast. "Do _you_ think it unusual that Snowball Two has needed to go to the vet at least once a week for the past two months?"

"Perhaps." Maynard sipped his tea. "But Tony's attention to detail has improved to an astonishing degree over the last few years. If he feels Snowball Two needs medical care, I bow to his powers of observation."

"And what do those powers of observation find, when exercised on the new veterinarian?"

"I really couldn't say too much about her. Beautiful woman, of course. Appears to be much younger than she, in fact, is; but it would be ungentlemanly to discuss a woman's age." He peered at his wife over the rim of the teapcup. "She's quite a bit older than Tony. And a foreigner."

"Umm." Rose pushed a bit of orange rind off her teeth with her tongue. "Duchy of Grand Fenwick. Her mother was Prime Minister there for years. She's practically English. Did I tell you I met her, while Angel and I were riding?"

"You did, my love." Maynard was quietly proud of Rose's methodical approach to teaching Angel correct behaviors with kingdoms animal, vegetable and mineral. His son (while in his opinion basically sound), had genetic and environmental predispositions that required educational opportunities not provided by traditional schooling.

"A veterinarian in the family," Rose mused, "would make the procurement of various substances so much easier."

Maynard frowned. For a moment Rose sounded a great deal like his mother. "That's an unworthy thought," he said gently. "Tony has grown into a discriminating, thoughtful young man. I'm sure any woman he cares for enough to bring home will be welcome, on her own merits."

Snowball Two exploded from the back door, ran to the center of the lawn, then flattened herself into the grass. For a moment only the tip of her twitching tail could be seen clearly. Her back and ears returned to view as she began a cautious stalk toward one of the bird feeders.

"Tony's home," Rose said, unnecessarily, pouring tea into a third cup.

"Good morning." Tony sauntered to the table, grinning at them. It was a grin that stretched his generous mouth nearly ear to ear. His fox-colored hair was brushed flat to his scalp. The perfection of his tailored suit was only slightly marred by several white cat hairs.

"Good morning, Tony. Tea?"

"Thank you." Tony brushed off a patio chair and sat down carefully. He added sugar and cream to his cup. "There will be a new deposit in the account this morning."

"Well done." Maynard beamed at his protege. "Did you have any difficulty making it look like an accident?"

"No. Although there were unexpected complications, and an epilogue to the scenario." Tony took a piece of toast, slathered it with marmalade.

"Don't be a tease, Tony." Rose waved the butter knife at him. In their parlance, _epilogue_ meant a major departure from a job blueprint. It meant improvisation. Not _always_ a bad thing. She owed her happiness, her husband, child, and Tony to the epilogue of one of Victor's jobs: to his failure to complete a contract and kill her, to be precise. But that was far in the past.

"The target's routine held true. I waited at the warehouse until 1:15; an hour and fifteen minutes after the last lab assistant had departed. Snowball Two was with me, in her carrier. My plan was to complete the contract, then stop by Regina's office to get her pads inspected." Tony's eyes wandered to the spot of white crouching near the feeder. "Upon entering the warehouse, I realized Dr. Trilby had other visitors. Imagine my surprise when I recognized Regina's voice. She was berating the doctor for his treatment of lab animals."

"The reduced price we accepted for the contract was based on Dr. Trilby's reputation," Maynard noted. "I'm thinking of extending a similar discount for the pharmaceutical company's board of directors."

"In fairness, we should probably split the contract fee with Regina," Tony said. "She knocked Trilby out before I got into the room. There were two women with her, already beginning to remove the animals."

"That doesn't sound like an accident scenario," Rose said. "When the authorities find him dead, and the animals gone . . ."

"Oh, the animals are still there. Until tomorrow night," Tony said. "Regina was surprised to see me, but when I explained what I needed she was happy to assist. She could see the downside of having a group of animals' rights activists involved in an early retirement. Regina told her ladies to go away while we tidied up the scene."

"You have their names?" Maynard frowned. "Can they identify you?"

"I was wearing a balaclava. Regina recognized my voice, but did not say my name before I cautioned her to be quiet." Tony upended his teacup for a moment. "I do have their names."

"Excellent. Please continue."

"Trilby started to come round. Regina sat on him so I could inject the experimental drug."

"She sat on him?" Maynard smiled. "We must have her to dinner, Tony. But I'm a little concerned over the physical condition of the target. It sounds as if he collected various bruises before retirement."

"We staged the area with an electrical cord around his foot, and an office chair located too near the cages." Tony's smile turned shy. "You'll like Regina. Actually, I'm thinking about going on a bit of a trip with her. To America. She's going to visit with old family friends, and attend the opening of a museum collection: Old World Treasures and art from the time of the Russian revolution."

Rose cocked her head to one side, like a bird spotting the tail of a worm in long grass. "Really? That sounds fascinating. Anything by Fabrege?"

"Regina can tell you more. She said I could invite you to go as well. Even Mother Maynard, if she's up to it." Pride was apparent in Tony's voice and earnest expression. "Regina is a very family-oriented person. And she loves Angel. Says she's never seen a child with better empathy to animals."

Maynard's hand found Rose's. "There's no substitute for travel, to broaden a child's experience and outlook. Have you ever been to America, my love?"

"No. It sounds wonderful." Rose began to gather the breakfast things. "See if Regina can join us for dinner tonight, Tony. We can get to know each other and discuss the trip."

 

**EAGLE'S NEST: SFICE HQ**

Outwardly the same stately, crisply white country manor, Eagle's Nest had been transformed in the three years following the Stanton Affair: high-end bed and breakfast into ultra-secure headquarters for the _Society for the Facilitation of International Cooperation and Exchange._

The difference between Eagle's Nest then and Eagle's Nest now was the difference between an ice cube and an iceberg -- and millions of dollars.

For the deliberately curious, or the casual web surfer who stumbled onto the Society's website, the board of directors appeared on the homepage along with the Society's mission statement. Lacking the usual buzzwords and semi-colons, the mission statement (centered on a single line above a mailing address located in Washington, D.C.), read: _To serve man._

The Society's CEO, listed as Dr. Franz Liebman, had chosen the mission statement. It still made him chuckle during board meetings.

Completing the modestly-sized board were Ms. Victoria Brown, Francis d'Assisi, Tiffany Ferrari and Mel Gibson. Although intricate legends were available for all of the board members, none of them could be reached through that information. Requests for service funneled into the Society through current CIA Director William Cooper, Chief of Staff at MI6, and occasionally a nameless official in Moscow; these requests originated from places and people that would have surprised and excited the pundits at CNN and Fox News. Fortunately the world was spared further desensitization through shallow media blitz by Piotr's superior security arrangements and Cooper's preemptive paranoia. 

Although the Society now held the deed to Eagle's Nest, former owner Victoria Winslow (businesswoman, master baker, retired spy), had been retained to manage the facility. In keeping with its new mission and occupants, the house had been stripped to its bones; knick-knacks and faux-Victoriana were removed, leaving the curving beauty of oak woodwork and gracious accent of plaster medallions as the natural, dramatic focus originally intended by the American craftsmen who had built Eagle's Nest. 

Taking her cue from the rustic lodge of her lover Ivan Simanov (Ambassador of the Russian Federation, retired spy), Victoria had redecorated the dining room, living room and bedrooms with simple, rich colors and fabric. A collection of paintings that provided focal points for many of the rooms were a gift from Ivan; Victoria did not recognize the artist, but the Eastern Oriental colors and richness of detail in the portraits of women of unknown period struck her as uniquely beautiful, and unexpectedly at home on the walls of Eagle's Nest.

That the remodeling, refining and change in focus from ornamentation to classic essentials paralleled other aspects of her personal life did not escape Victoria.

It was a mild Saturday morning in late April. Ivan had been at the embassy all week; Victoria had remained in the country all week. 

Victoria had discovered (following a period of intense togetherness, then the establishment of a new _normal_ , a transition during which she and Ivan cautiously reworked the boundaries of personal space and time) that five days apart from Ivan was at least three days too many. She woke early, finding herself alone and grumpy in the king-size bed. Lacking any other creative outlet, she showered and went downstairs intending to mix a batch of dough for cinnamon rolls.

In the four years since the Stanton Affair, Victoria had, if anything, seemed to grow younger. Her shorter, fly-away hairstyle brushed her eyebrows and cheeks giving her a youthful, gamine appearance. There were laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, a softness around jawline and chin, but her skin had a healthy glow, and her eyes were as bright as winter stars.

"Good morning, Victoria." Piotr's wife, Irina, came into the kitchen carrying her six-month-old baby girl. "You're doing my job. Do we expect the Ambassador this morning?"

Victoria dusted flour from her hands, and glanced at the clock on the wall. "Yes. Soon. By the time breakfast is done, he should be here." Her phone vibrated against her hip. Victoria checked the number, then answered the call.

"Yes?"

"Set another place for breakfast. I'm about fifteen minutes out." The man's voice was husky with fatigue. 

"William. How lovely. Coffee's ready. See you soon." Victoria shut the phone. "Director Cooper will be joining us for breakfast."

Irina looked down at the baby resting on her shoulder. "He hasn't seen my new breasts yet."

"I'm sure Piotr wouldn't like you to draw his attention to them." Victoria laughed. Irina was nursing, and her cup size had doubled since the birth of her second daughter. 

"Piotr is not a jealous man. He knows I love him. But a woman has eyes in her head." A sly look here. "Of course, you only have eyes for one man. You never look at Director Cooper."

"Of course, I do." Victoria swiftly cut rounds of cinnamon laced dough and arranged them in baking tins. "William is very cute. He's also very married."

Irina shrugged, a gesture of fatalistic acceptance and protest combined. She retrieved a baby-holding contraption from the pantry and settled little Talia into a protective webbing of humane baby restraints. "She's such a good baby."

"Is Piotr in the ready room?" It was what they called the recently completed underground bunker that housed the hub of technologies supporting SFICE's human assets with unparalleled communication and information assets.

"He is. With Milla." Irina rolled her eyes. "He wished to check our e-mail, and play a quick game of chess with her. I keep telling him she should be playing games more suited to children. Piotr will not listen to me."

Irina's complaint rang hollow. She was proud of her eldest daughter's rather intimidating memory and intellect. Ludmilla had celebrated her fifth birthday playing her "Uncle" Ivan to a draw. 

"Let those raise for forty minutes, then put them in the oven. If you don't need me, I'll just pop down and see if there's word from Frank or Sarah." 

"I think I can manage," Irina said, cheerfully sarcastic. Before Ivan arranged for a quiet relocation of personnel, Irina had been in charge of the kitchen at the Russian embassy; her husband, Piotr, had worked IT and security. Now the couple and their two children lived in Eagle's Nest's old coachhouse. Once a garage and workshop, the building's recent renovation included a self-contained three bedroom apartment.

Victoria flipped the light plate near the basement door to reveal the optical scanner. She bent to present her eye. The scanner blinked twice, then the door to the basement let out a little sigh and opened. Victoria climbed down the single long flight of stairs and repeated the scanner procedure with the other eye. 

The second flight of stairs were even longer, and new. The entire back yard had been excavated at the same time they remodeled the coach house; a small team of quiet, intensely active men, cargo helicopters and cranes came and went in less than 24 hours, leaving new turf and what Piotr had described as "the exoskeleton of an impervious work space."

At the bottom of the second flight of stairs Victoria stared briefly into a hooded scanner, then took a step back. The door that opened with quiet compliance was as thick as a concrete block, perhaps ten inches of steel and Manganal hard plate -- capable of shrugging off a tank, if one could fit down the stairs.

Entering the ready room Victoria could hear a fierce, rapid exchange in Russian.

Piotr and Ludmilla were gesticulating at a floating holographic image that currently showed a chess board and pieces. The resemblance between father and daughter was, as always, startling. Ludmilla was a female miniature of her blond father, except for something about the sharp little chin and space between her wide brown eyes; Irina's contribution to the gene pool could be seen there. 

"Aun-tie Vee. I would like to have a puppy." Milla hit a hydraulic control on the arm of the computer chair. When her tiny legs could touch the floor she ran to Victoria, stopped a foot away and clasped her hands under her chin. "Please?" 

"I've tried to explain. A dog would make trouble with grounds sensors," Piotr muttered. The e-chessboard disappeared. "There is no word from Frank. Director Cooper sent a confirmation e-mail. He will arrive in approximately 10 minutes. The Ambassador has several private messages in queue."

"Thank you. I can't believe you couldn't adjust the electronics to include canine recognition." Victoria smiled at Milla. "Your father and I will speak with Uncle Ivan."

"Thank you, Aun-tie Vee."

Victoria took the seat Milla had vacated and swiveled slowly through the arc of projections; one for each point of the compass, one for the interior of the house. All the images displayed grids of real-time video and various information presented as sometimes spiky bar graphs. Her eyes automatically went to the dead zone in the northern quadrant. "I wish Marvin would come home. He said he was only going to pick up a few things in Louisiana, then get back to work on Casa Boggs. We're going to have to speak with him before Milla gets a puppy. He'll have to be consulted; he has physical countermeasures out there."

"If he has physical countermeasures, he will have to remove them before Milla and Natalia begin to play in woods," Piotr said. "He is insane to mistrust properly installed electronic security."

"We'll work something out." 

Milla looked between them and gave a small roll of her eyes. "Papa, may I show Auntie Vee my surrogate pet?"

"Surrogate pet?" It was difficult not to laugh at Milla's transition from eager child to the intense, oddly mature persona that Victoria thought of as _mad Russian scientist, the younger._ "What have you two been building in the lab?"

"New drone application," Piotr said. "We've just finished smoothing out software and hardware control issues. You may give Victoria a preview, Milla."

The child pushed another chair to one of Piotr's stations, clambered up into the seat then adjusted the height until she could reach the keyboard. "I call her Kitty. Papa says that's silly -- but it is a form of camouflage. Deception through the use of language." Milla looked back over her shoulder and grinned. "It is also a good name for a pet." Her tiny fingers danced over the keyboard.

The first intimation of the nature of Milla's pet came when Victoria noticed one of the security screens had changed to a view of the ready room; a view that moved smoothly from a vantage somewhere behind her, panned around to the left, then displayed a clear image of the three of them from the front. Piotr's image was looking upward.

"Kitty?" If this was a drone application, it was the most amazing thing Victoria had ever seen. No bigger than half the size of her fist, making no noise that registered above the white-noise drone of electronic equipment in the room, it hung stationary in a shimmering blur of -- wings?

"Kitty." Milla held out her hand and the object darted downward to perch. "Papa let me choose the body design. We based it on the ruby-throated hummingbirds that visit Eagle's Nest during the summer."

"Stealth hummingbird. It's a work of art." Down to the tiny, ruby colored sensor on the clockwork bird's throat. Victoria bent closer and saw Kitty's "head" tilt to follow her movement. "What is security designation on Kitty, Milla?"

"Stage One, Auntie Vee. Papa, Uncle Bear and you. And me, since I helped with development."

"Good girl. Have you field tested her yet, Piotr?" With a small jump, the drone was back in the air. Victoria tried to follow its path as it elevated to the ceiling. At a distance of more than six feet, it was difficult to keep focus on the drone.

"Preliminary excursions into the woods. Kitty performs very well now." Pride and satisfaction were evident in Piotr's assessment. "It is time for Stage One personnel to evaluate Kitty's addition to the arsenal, and rate of declassification."

"Uncle Frank will love Kitty, but Uncle Marvin will hate her," Milla said with conviction. "Before she is declassified, you must tell Uncle Marvin he is not to shoot Kitty."

"Uncle Marvin is not allowed to shoot Kitty," Victoria agreed. "Very well done, both of you."

"Look! Uncle Bear is home." Milla bounced with excitement, spinning away from the keyboard.

Victoria saw the tell-tale sign on the bar graph before the monitor transmitted the image of Ivan's car parking in front of the coach house. Ivan's holographic image shut the car door, threw back his head and took a deep breath of air. He looked in the direction of the camera and smiled. His white dress shirt, sans tie, was creased and crumpled, indicating he'd had a very late night at the embassy before starting the drive to Eagle's Nest.

"He looks very tired, Auntie Vee. Should you help him shower before breakfast?"

Piotr made a strangled sound.

"I imagine he wants a cup of coffee first." Victoria held out her hand, took Milla's fingers in hers. "Come along, Piotr. Let's go up to breakfast."

 

**WILLIAM COOPER: NEWS & A MISSION**

It had been a full year since William Cooper's last physical visit to Eagle's Nest.

Cooper parked his car next to Ivan's. Hours of driving had stiffened his legs, as he found when he stood in the clear, sharp Maryland air yawning convulsively. The director of the CIA had a busy, complicated life. If he'd brought a companion, he might have slept on the way; but Cooper was working hard to keep Eagle's Nest as low under the radar (now _that_ was an amusing anachronism) as possible.

The enlarged coach house was the most easily seen change to the grounds. Cooper flexed his shoulders and arms as he walked. Gravel crunched underfoot, loud in the quiet country air. Climbing the steps to the porch Cooper wished he had time and opportunity to bring Michelle and the kids to Eagle's Nest for a vacation. It would make a pleasant, ultra secure getaway. A rare combination, in his experience.

Irina answered the door, welcoming him with a wide smile and a swaddled armful.

"This is Talia?" Cooper accepted the armful. She was a lovely baby, rosy cheeked and gloriously silent in drowsy sleep. "Congratulations. She's beautiful."

"She is only a baby. She doesn't know who you are. You have only spoken with me on screen since my fourth birthday." Tiny hands on tiny hips, Milla glared at Cooper as he walked toward the dining room.

Cooper passed the baby back to Irina, bent, then hoisted Milla into the air. "You're so tall, Milla!"

She giggled and kicked her feet. "Aun-tie Vee is getting me a puppy."

"You're lucky. I wish I could have a puppy." Cooper set her back on the floor, where she resumed glaring at him.

"William. Sit down and eat, we're just finishing." Victoria, Ivan and Piotr were seated at the dining room table. "Would you like Irina to make you an omelette?"

"No, thank you." As usual, there was plenty of food already on the table. "I _need_ coffee, and I'll take a piece of that toast. If I don't keep moving, or talking, or I'll fall asleep."

"There's raspberry jam. Take the basket downstairs. I'll fix a thermos of coffee. You will want to speak in the ready room. Come, Milla." Irina motioned to her eldest daughter. "Your father told you: no puppy."

"Aun-tie Vee said she and father would talk to Uncle Bear," Milla protested. "And Uncle Bear is the boss of us all."

"She has enviable focus of mind." Ivan sighed as he stood. "Do I have time to change clothing?"

Cooper gathered toast, jam and knife. "Go ahead. I'd like Piotr to brief me on his recent improvements, so I can go back to Washington and assure our patron he's not buying gold-plated bidets with all the money SFICE is spending."

 

By the time Ivan joined them in the ready room, Cooper had upgraded his mental terminology for Eagle's Nest from _ultra secure_ to _mega-ultra secure._ He had also written himself a mental memo to panic if Piotr ever got reassigned to Moscow. 

"You looked dazed, Director. Irina's coffee will help." 

Ivan poured coffee for each of them. He had changed into a moss-colored smoking jacket that made the remaining auburn of his greying hair more obvious. In spite of four years of having both Irina and Victoria in the kitchen, he appeared to be fit and, if anything, a couple of pounds lighter. He settled next to Victoria at the small round table, captured her hand and kissed her palm. "It is good to be home."

"It's good to have you home." The expression on Victoria's face did not indicate her attention was focused on business.

"I'd say -- get a room. But since you have one waiting upstairs maybe we'd better get down to business." The sight of a pair of oldtimers acting like hormonally driven newlyweds, after four years of honeymoon, still amused him. They were horny as teenagers after they'd been apart for several days. It was both slightly discomfiting, and gave him hope for the future. Cooper nodded at Piotr. "Impressive set-up. After Frank's last facilitation, our patron in Washington managed to appropriate additional money. It should show up in the account within the week."

"Thank you. Piotr requires an abnormal amount of money."

"Piotr has an impressive amount of R&D to show for his consumption of cash," Cooper said dryly. "When I take his GPS patch back to Washington, I'll bet they give us another bonus."

"You can thank Ludmilla for that particular breakthrough," Victoria said. "If her father hadn't been temporarily, rabidly paranoid after she stowed away in the back of the Fedex truck, it would never have been developed."

Cooper exchanged looks of commiseration with Piotr. "Kids. I get it."

"What brings you here, now, in person, William? Curiosity?" Victoria asked.

"In part. What do you know about Thierry Maimonides, Ambassador?"

"Only very bad things." Ivan nodded at Piotr. "Those who lead major criminal organizations in France, Italy, Spain, Turkey, Albania and Russia hate and fear him. He has been trying to secure a position in Russia for many years. I encountered some of his people there on two occasions." Ivan shrugged. "Moscow, 1999. They made fuss, but did not stay."

A few seconds on Piotr's keyboard and the central holoscreen displayed a silent video of a dark haired, rough-featured man seemingly lecturing a group in a boardroom setting. With a final strike of his fist on the table, the man left. Two seconds later the group around the table was jerking in a hail of bullets from an off-camera source.

"That was Maimonides, firing the board of a newly acquired corporation. He has found ways to profit during recent distress in Greece and the Middle East. The incident we just viewed was recorded in Singapore, 2007 September; it segued to a confrontation with a Russian businessman, during which Maimonides lost over a third of his organization, and his only son."

"Maimonides was working toward establishing a significant presence in the Russian Federation and Belarus," Cooper said. "And for the record, my agency calls Yevgeny Petrov everything but a businessman."

"Philanthropist? Saint? I don't believe they call him these things." Ivan laughed. "He is, perhaps, our greatest entrepreneur, and a thorough criminal. But to this point Moscow has an understanding, a relationship of mutual benefit. We certainly do not wish to trade him for Maimonides."

"Have you checked your e-mail here, since you got in from the city?" Cooper asked. "Why don't you take a minute."

Ivan raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me." 

Victoria's eyes followed him as he moved to a monitor and keyboard on the other side of the room. "Your family are well, I hope."

Cooper grinned at her, catching a tiny eyeroll from Piotr. "They're great. I haven't had the chance to thank you in person, for including Michelle when you take Sarah to the range." His wife's anxiety level had dropped as her self-confidence in personal defense skills had increased. The change was subtle and surprising. Cooper had never realized how Michelle's careful lack of questions about his work revealed fear rather than absence of curiosity.

"She's a lovely person; it's been a pleasure. Both my pupils have progressed to levels of acceptable proficiency, although, interestingly, Frank says Sarah does better under pressure than she does on the range."

"Hopefully, Michelle will never have to prove herself in the field," Cooper said.

"Natasha will be here next week." Ivan returned to the table. "Traveling as backup security for Alexandra Petrova."

Piotr's fingers flew. A static snapshot of a woman in evening dress, diamonds in her platinum blonde hair, replaced the Maimonides video. 

"Old family friend?" Cooper stated, more than asked. "Older sister of Yevgeny Petrov. She's going to be present at the opening of an exhibit at the Museum of Eastern European Art, celebrating a collection donated by her family, with the approval of your Ministry of Cultural Treasures."

"Piotr . . ."

"Yes, Ambassador. Museum security and layout. Itinerary for plane flights and accommodations. Identification of primary security detail."

"Is Natasha doing this as a friend, or because your people asked her to?" Victoria watched the unfolding panorama of information.

"Probably both. She uses a phrase in her e-mail that indicates she believes this is light duty with a possibly sensitive target." Ivan stared at Cooper. "That incident in Singapore occurred two years ago. We have heard nearly nothing of Maimonides in the intervening time. He is believed to have a compound in Pakistan."

"Six days ago a jet left Dubai, with Maimonides and a man named P.D. James on board. They landed at Heathrow. Maimonides continued out of London. His stated destination was the Bahamas. We're still waiting confirmation or denial of his arrival there." Cooper pointed at a new photo on the screen. "P.D. James. Not your ordinary assassin. He's known as the world's best _Incident Coordinator._ "

"I have heard of him. Excuse me again. I need to send a preliminary e-mail caution to Natasha. I do not think she has signed on for light duty, at all."

"James is a member of SAG?" Victoria leaned forward to get a better look at the screen. "I recognize a few of those movies. He has a long list of screen credits. Many apparently in the adult film industry, if the titles are any indication. Yet his photo has all the charm of a poorly embalmed corpse. He is American?"

"We believe so. He's never appeared on screen without heavy creature make-up or a mask," Cooper said absently. "Our profilers agree he has a frustrated star complex. He finally left Hollywood in the late 90s, after being rejected for the role of Carmine Zuigiber."

"A female role, if the screenplay keeps faith with the novel," Ivan said as he rejoined them. "But that movie was never made."

Cooper knew Simanov was a prodigious reader, but somehow he had not expected _Good Omens_ to hold interest for the Russian. "No. The director, producer, and assorted money men drowned in an accident off Catalina. At least, the boat sank and the bodies were never recovered, so drowning is . . . assumed." 

"So. James sees himself as one of the Four Horsemen. War, to be precise. He is, in his own way, as unbalanced as Maimonides." Ivan's hand disappeared under the table top. "I had a long drive this morning. I think, a short nap while Piotr updates the dossiers on Maimonides and James. You also look as if you had a long drive, Director Cooper. Your usual room is available."

Cooper grimaced as he stood and stretched. "Thanks. At least a shower would feel good. I'd like to make a few calls first."

"Voice or video?" Piotr gestured at the smaller bank of monitors and keyboards where Ivan had read his e-mail. His eyes strayed past Cooper toward Ivan and Victoria as they left the ready room. 

Ivan's hand curved against the small of Victoria's back, then drifted lower. "Nap my ass," Cooper muttered. "Do they still --?"

"Oh, yes," Piotr said, with unmistakeable pride. "They certainly do."

 

**FRANK CARDEN: A PUBLIC SERVICE**

Frank Carden sat at a picnic table in the sun, reading the Washington Post, a paper that would have been impossible to pick up locally. It had arrived in the bulky Kraft envelope addressed to, and delivered through the mail slot of, an otherwise empty office space. Carden had kept watch and waited patiently for two days before dropping through a skylight at night and retrieving the package.

He found the obituary without difficulty. Gwen Miles had been something of a name in Washington, and she died too young (by most social standards -- Carden was mildly surprised no one had been moved to delete her at any point after her thirtieth birthday).

A sudden illness, according to the short article that accompanied the obit. Someone Carden had never heard of was assigned to fill her position while the Bureau scrambled to once again weather internal upheavals, a state of affairs that appeared to be mirrored in the Company's head offices.

FBI and CIA in turmoil. Nothing had been the same in Washington since the Stanton resignation. Nothing in Carden's life had been on track since a freak car accident derailed his current career, and turned his most lucrative customer into a rabid bitch, intent on ending his career _and_ life.

Gwen Miles had known where the bodies were buried in Washington, because she'd arranged for most of the inhumations. After his last job for her, the one where his team was killed due to the actions of a turncoat, Carden had been ready to kill Miles without bothering to make it look like an accident. But Miles had let it ride, backed off and left him isolated and alone. For the past four years he'd lived on the advance money from that last job. Not having to split it with the team made it go further. It would have been nice to collect the rest of the money after he made good on the aborted contract -- but that was out of the question.

Carden would be happy to shoot a sleeping or snarling hyena, but he wouldn't strap a steak to his ankle and poke one with a stick.

The big, black man folded the paper neatly, placing it on top of the envelope. He stood and stretched, casually getting a good look at the few children on the swings, mothers hovering nearby. He could remember a time when children could play by themselves on playgrounds, could ride bicycles all day without cellphone or GPS keeping nervous parents in the loop. In his opinion, the world just hadn't changed for the better.

His car started on the third try. It needed new tires, new brakes, new shocks, and obviously a new starter. Last month, with his cash stash nearly depleted, and his bank balance dipping, Carden had made the decision to run a discreet advertisement in the New York Times. Gwen Miles hadn't been the only heavy hitter to use his services. If he didn't get back in the game soon not only would he be broke, he'd be so far out of practice he might as well put a bullet in his own brain, save others the trouble.

A buoyant sense of renewed purpose rose as Carden drove carefully through the small city traffic. If the job offer was on the level, this would be a big one with a high pay-off. He would have to do it without a team. It would be just like the old days, when he was transitioning from public to private practice.

Carden caught sight of his own eyes in the rear view mirror: the wrinkles had been there for years. His hair was more white than grey now. He was only 66, but for the last three years he had felt a full decade older. Retirement wasn't only for drones, for men who had hobbies, pensions, demanding wives. He had simple interests that, given enough cushion in the bank, would fill whatever time he had left.

 _P.D. James._ The name headlining nearly every page of his packet was not unknown to Carden. Considering the amount of the advance, and full amount of the contract, others had already tried and failed to move James to another plane of existence. By the time Carden pulled into the driveway of his modest rented house, several preliminary plans had already been formed, rejected, tweaked and adopted. He would read the packet more carefully, then respond with a second classified advertisement indicating acceptance of the contract.

Not only would the money ensure a comfortable retirement, but the difficulty level would elevate the contract into _personal best_ territory. Factor in the nature of the target, and it could be said Frank Carden was also performing a significant public service.

Frank Carden had never failed to deliver on a contract he accepted.

P.D. James had just become a dead man walking.


	2. Chapter 2

**DINNER WITH THE MAYNARDS**

"Regina Victoria Hero. What a lovely name." Maynard bent slightly over her hand. Ms. Hero was a striking woman, taller than Tony by a good inch, with glossy brunette hair cut in a short bob. Her hand was strong and slightly calloused, something he would expect in a working veterinarian. She wore a short-sleeved, unfussy dress that demurely displayed sleekly muscled arms and toned calves.

"It's a pleasure, Victor. Tony says so many good things about you and Rose."

"Sit down next to me." Rose grabbed her hand and led her toward the love seat. "I have some questions about pharmaceutical products."

"Can I get you a drink? Wine? Lemonade?" Maynard made a motion at Tony. His young protege was watching their guest with adoration.

"Lemonade, please."

"Tony." He placed a firm hand on Tony's shoulder and pushed him toward the side board. "She has excellent upper body development," Maynard whispered, pouring lemonade. "I believe she could strangle a man with her bare hands."

"She could," Tony agreed, eyes wide and luminous with emotion. "She's wonderful."

Talk flowed naturally, pleasantly. By the time dinner ended (Rose had made the effort to cook nothing but vegetarian courses), it seemed as if Regina had been a long time friend of the family. Angel behaved exquisitely, listening to the conversation, occasionally asking questions about surgical procedures. When Rose took Angel off to settle him for the night, Maynard moved his guests to the outdoor table on the back lawn. 

"It's difficult for me to believe Angel is only six years of age." Regina crossed her legs and relaxed in a patio chair. "He asks the most intelligent questions, and his follow-up questions proves he understands the answers. He seems interested in medicine."

Rose beamed. Her darling son was currently interested in medicines, herbs, vegetable substances in general. "It's too early to say where his mind will settle. Mr. Maynard and I view this early time as a chance for him to stretch his intellect."

"Would you care for a cordial?" Maynard's long fingers hovered over the silver tray Rose had placed ready for after dinner drinks. "It's peach, very sweet, but smells absolutely divine."

"Yes, thank you. I'll try a small amount." Regina accepted her glass, inhaled with appreciation. "How wonderful." She took a careful sip. "You are right. It's absolutely divine." She smiled across the table at Tony, a look that thinned the twilight around the table. "Tony said you were interested in hearing about our trip to America."

"We are intrigued," Maynard said. "Rose is devoted to the arts. Since Angel's birth travel has, necessarily, been curtailed."

"My Russian godmother will be in America next week. She's acting as companion to a woman whose family has recently provided the Museum of Eastern European Art with an extensive collection." Regina sipped her cordial. "I would like to see Natasha and the exhibit, but I would also like to renew some contacts in the American branch of a professional organization."

"To which you belong?" Maynard asked, delicately. "Please forgive me for talking about work at a social occasion. Tony described the events at the laboratory. Your restraint and assistance are very much appreciated."

"You've very kind, but the outcome of the mission was my paramount concern. Tony's actions made the outcome -- inevitably positive." Regina placed her glass on the table, uncrossed her legs. "I'm nine years older than Tony. I'm active in an animal rights organization that operates outside legal channels to find solutions. This doesn't mean I value animal life more than human life. I acknowledge there are times when animals, and humans, must die."

"I love Regina," Tony said suddenly. "Told her the family business was unusual, but it was your place to explain, Victor."

"We're not concerned about the age difference. Mr. Maynard is somewhat older than I am, and we are perfectly suited," Rose said. "Do you love Tony?"

"I do." For the first time, Regina looked less than fully self-confident. "He is a very fine man, patient and kind with animals. I love him very much."

Tony was around the patio table, on one knee, holding her hand. His pencil-thin mustache trembled with emotion.

Maynard nodded approvingly. "Welcome to the family, Regina Victoria Hero. My beautiful wife . . . "

"Is a thief. Largely reformed, since I am now primarily a mother," Rose said. "Art cons were my specialty. My clever husband . . ."

"Is an assassin." Maynard stroked one long finger over his wife's hand. "Tony is my protege. We kill people, my dear."

Regina smiled at Maynard and Rose, smiled at Tony. It was a surprisingly soft, slightly misty smile. "I feel at home already."

 

**MR. HECTOR: HOTEL JAMES HILTON**

It was going to be one of those days in the hotel business.

Mr. Hector, whose illustrious, if somewhat tattered, career included five-star establishments around the globe, found the dated elegance of Hotel James Hilton to be normally serene and stress free. 

Guests were uniformly quiet, responsible and appreciative of thoughtful service. The staff was small, but adequate; experienced without being ancient. Their location, directly across the street from the Museum of Eastern European Art, was the largest contributing factor to the quality of the hotel's clientele. 

Mature couples with matching leather luggage; well-dressed families (with no more than two quiet children) attended by competent nannies; businessmen in sharp suits, Barker Blacks and power briefcases; the occasional writer or college student focused on research and the love of art: these were the people Mr. Hector welcomed with sincere pleasure.

It pained him to turn the right kind of people away from his hotel. It pained him even more to admit error, explain to people with reservations that the computer had malfunctioned, overbooking the Hotel James Hilton to an alarming degree.

In the rare event Hotel James Hilton had filled every available room (usually during one of the Museum's events), the management (Mr. Hector) would recommend the less elegant, but better known Hilton, a mere two miles away from the Museum.

It was to this hotel that Mr. Hector had just directed his fourth pair of travelers. 

"I am so sorry. I cannot explain how this has happened." The computer monitor inflexibly showed the sequence of dates and reservations. "I can give you a room for one night only. After that, we are booked solid for the next four days."

Protestations from the travelers that they _had_ booked well in advance, offerings of printed confirmation numbers that didn't exist in his reservation database, finally grieved acceptance of the Hilton recommendation: each step of the process was like having a butter knife shoved past his sphincter.

The last couple he turned away gave him extra pain. Both had refined English accents. Both had attained at least 70 years of age. Their monogrammed luggage shone with burnished care. Mr. Hector would have gladly exchanged any (or all) of their current first floor guests for the departed Mr. and Mrs. Darling.

Not that Mr. Henry James, Mr. Sax Rohmer, Mr. Art Machen, Mr. Allen Poe, and the brothers Karamazov and Grimm weren't quiet (almost invisible) guests. Since their mass check-in yesterday, Mr. Hector had not seen or spoken to any of them. Although the staff said they kept turning up in the basement, apparently looking for a gymnasium that did not exist. Food had been ordered from outside, and brought into Mr. James' suite. Upon check-in Mr. James had shared with Mr. Hector his intention to hold business meetings in that suite.

Going on looks alone, something Mr. Hector _tried_ never to do, those meetings were probably about expanding a funeral franchise. Mr. James' odd physical appearance and stilted speech had left Mr. Hector with the frisson of psychic unease he usually only experienced in the presence of morticians, Hollywood B-list celebrities and rock musicians . . . or small boys holding a father's credit card.

A terrible thought occurred. Mr. Hector, rapidly entering a search query, found reassurance as the reservation appeared, intact on his screen. Their best third floor suite, and adjoining suite, were still held for the Museum guests.

"Excuse me." 

Mr. Hector looked up from the computer, smiled automatically, then genuinely. A mature, but very lovely woman with artlessly styled short white-blonde hair was standing at his counter. Behind her a mature, distinguished looking man with beard and mustache assisted the bellboy in placing a modest amount of luggage on a cart.

"Welcome to the Hotel James Hilton. I am Mr. Hector. How may we help you?" Behind the marble counter, Mr. Hector crossed his fingers.

"I have a reservation, in the name of Ms. Victoria Brown."

"Of course. One moment." Mr. Hector watched the monitor with sick fascination as his search query was rejected. "Oh dear. I'm afraid we're experiencing an unprecedented problem with our reservation system."

"Is there problem?"

Mr. Hector registered the fact the man spoke English with a Russian accent, and that although he smiled, his blue eyes looked cold enough to freeze vodka.

"I'm sure it will be resolved." Ms. Brown smiled warmly. "This is my partner, Ambassador Simanov. His staff placed the reservation."

 _Ambassador_ Simanov. It was too much. Impossible to turn away a Russian ambassador on the eve of the opening of a major Russian exhibit at the Museum.

"I will check with staff." Ambassador Simanov stepped away, put a phone to his ear. 

The name _Piotr_ was followed by a rapid, quiet conversation in Russian. When Ambassador Simanov shut his phone he returned to the counter. "Check reservation again," he suggested.

The guest was always right, Mr. Hector reminded himself grimly. "Of course, Ambassador." To his immense surprise and relief, the query returned a positive match. "I can't imagine . . . you are very welcome to the Hotel James Hilton. I have a suite for you on the third floor. Now, we'll just get you registered."

"Aunt Vee! Uncle Bear!" The woman who raced across the foyer was perhaps in her early 30s. She was wearing a beautifully tailored dark suit that made Mr. Hector's heart beat faster. Behind her were two men (the elder of whom wore a Gieves & Hawkes suit with Crocket & Jones cordovan Oxfords – a vision that caused Mr. Hector to bite his knuckle in envy), accompanied by a woman holding the hand of a child of angelic appearance clutching what looked like a furry briefcase.

"Regina." Ms. Brown was hugging the young woman, then holding her at arm's length. "My dear. How lovely to see you."

The woman called Regina stepped away, turned, and plastered herself against the Ambassador's chest. "Uncle Bear."

Mr. Hector, catching the look the Ambassador sent over the brunette head toward Ms. Brown, wondered how he could have thought the man's eyes were cold. There was a quick exchange in Russian between them, then the Ambassador said: "Introduce us to your friends Regina Victoria."

"Ambassador Ivan Simanov, Victoria . . ." here the young woman sent a quick look of apparent inquiry at her aunt. "Victoria Brown. This is Mr. Victor Maynard and his wife Rose; their son Angel." She extended her hand. The young man (too young for her, surely?) with the auburn hair and slim mustaches took the hand. "And this is Tony."

Polite courtesies were exchanged.

"We were just checking in," Ms. Brown said. "There seems to be a computer glitch. You have reservations?" She turned to Mr. Hector. "Do you mind putting us on hold for a moment and checking their status?"

"Two suites, one in the name of Maynard, one in the name of Hero. Is Aunt Natasha here yet?"

"I haven't had a chance to ask. Mr. Hector -- the Ambassador's cousin is traveling with Aleksandra Petrova. Have they arrived?"

They were all relatives, or friends, of the Museum group, Mr. Hector realized. "They have not yet checked in. Allow me to confirm your reservations, Ms. Hero." Mr. Hector didn't hesitate when the search query came up zero. He brutally deleted two reservations on the third floor, assigning an additional two suites near the Brown suite to Maynard and Hero. This action filled his entire allotment of third floor suites. A white-haired black gentleman, a Mr. Konrad, had taken the sixth suite the day before, shortly before the arrival of Mr. Henry James and associates.

"Everything seems to be in order." Mr. Hector took a deep breath, spread his arms wide. "Welcome to the Hotel James Hilton. I am Mr. Hector, general and guest services manager, director of security and human resources. If you have any questions or requirements, I'm your man! Now, we'll just get you all formally registered."

 

**P.D. JAMES: GOOD HELP IS HARD TO FIND**

"Six people. None of them were Petrova." 

P.D. James looked down at the minimalist hotel desk through steepled fingers. He had chosen Mr. Poe as First Henchman based on previous positive experience with the man's intelligence and expertise with sharp objects. Poe was an unobtrusive man, medium height, medium weight, unremarkable coloring. He looked, James thought, like a body double for Dennis Hopper in his middle years.

"I understood the reservation system had been adjusted to prevent additional guests from checking in." Good help was so very hard to find. The Grimm brothers had been hired for their expertise with electronics; this first test of their credentials was not promising.

"I stopped by Willy's room. He's looking into it." Poe pulled out a PDA from his back pocket. "Older Russian man with an older English woman. English couple plus one with a kid. English woman in her 30s. I was seated in the hospitality lounge, couldn't hear everything. Someone, maybe the Russian, is related to one of Petrova's traveling companions."

"How old is the Russian?"

"Older than dirt. Late sixties? Early seventies?" Poe returned the PDA to his pocket. "With the black senior citizen, that means the top floor suites are full up."

"The second floor?" James opened his netbook, found and opened the jpeg he wanted. "Is this the Russian?"

Poe looked. "That's him. The second floor's empty. The last registered guests checked out this morning." Poe turned in response to a knock on the door. He peered out the peephole, then slid the lock open and held the door wide to admit Willy and Jake Grimm.

"Sorry, boss," Willy said. "Somebody hacked my hack. Somebody good."

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum would have been better pseudonyms for the twins. James considered changing their designations, then rejected the idea. It was bad luck to rename henchmen once a project was underway.

"No excuses. I want profiles on our unexpected third floor guests. Can you handle that?"

"Sure boss."

James watched them continue to stand and stare at him, exactly like Tweedles. He took a deep breath. "Poe, run down and get an update from the tunnel team. I don't want any additional surprises or alterations in the plan."

"Will do, boss." Poe left quickly.

As Incidents went, his current project was modular, but not that complex. Disable museum security from below, after accessing the museum basement through the utility vault located underneath the street; delete select items from the Russian exhibit; remove Aleksandra Petrova from the hotel to a prearranged location; film Petrova's death at that location. James liked the synergy of the project. What he did not care for was incompetent henchmen. "Would you like to get to work on those profiles, or would you like me to kill you?"

Tweedle -- Willy frowned. "Just waiting in case you had more to say, boss. _Direct threats require decisive action._ "

James sighed. He'd been a closet Cheney fan since 1990, and recognized the quote. "Then, get to work or I will kill you."

"Fair enough. Profiles coming up, boss." 

When the door closed behind them, James' eyes focused on the image of the Russian's face on the netbook screen. Ivan Simanov was one of Maimonides _extra_ items of business. It would be interesting to compare Willy's pending profile to the folder that currently resided on his netbook, provided by Thierry Maimonides' private security firm.

James remembered watching Maimonides pace the confined space of the airplane with nervous energy, remembered the sheen of sweat that developed on the man's forehead and cheeks as his monologue of details about the contract segued into a rant.

_Petrova will be accompanied by a former KGB officer, a woman named Natasha Miranova. Her cousin is currently assigned to the post of Ambassador. His name is Ivan Simanov. He is also former KGB. Chances are good he will be present for the museum event._

_Russians. I fucking hate Russians. Simanov and Miranova are old, but they are extraordinarily dangerous people. There will be a bonus for you if Simanov is -- inconvenienced. Not killed outright; I would like him to remain alive and suffer before his eventual death._

For the next twenty minutes, during the descent to Heathrow, James listened to a litany of non-fatal, yet excruciating, suggestions for making Simanov suffer. The conclusion that Maimonides was a rabid lunatic did not discourage James from taking the contract, but did cause him to alter the percentage of downpayment.

Which Maimonides paid without demur.

James shut the netbook. There were a lot of moving pieces, but he was confident it would all come together in the end. He was, after all, the best in the business.

 

**VICTORIA/IVAN: UNPACKING**

"Regina looks well." Victoria worked beside Ivan, unpacking the luggage. Traveling in-country was so much easier when one could drive to a destination instead of fly. Hours spent in a car together were still treasured blocks of time, a chance to talk in a self-contained universe where the present passed before their eyes while the past was shared and explored. It was also so much easier to transport weapons in a car.

"She has that look in her eyes. The young man is special."

"I agree." A last piece of lingerie settled neatly into the drawer. Her Walther went into a new pair of leather boots. "Will you have Piotr take a look at the family?"

"Yes." Ivan stepped up close, wrapped his arms around her. "My legs are stiff with so much driving. I used to be able to drive all night, and not have my knees shout at me."

"Are you asking for a massage?" Victoria turned, draping her arms over his shoulders. They stood for a moment, bodies at home and comfortable against each other.

"Have I told you today that I love you?"

The pre-massage kiss was interrupted by Ivan's phone. He kept one arm tight around her as he held the phone to his ear and listened. "Natasha? Just one moment."

"She's arrived." Victoria straightened her blouse and cast a longing look at her boots. She was on neutral ground with Natasha, but it seemed foolish to meet a known danger unarmed.

"You know you do not need gun for Natasha," Ivan paused, one hand on the door knob. "All right?"

"All right." While her lover's large family included many people he cared for deeply, Victoria knew Ivan's feeling for Natasha was that of a brother rather than a cousin. He kept her picture on the fireplace mantel in his embassy apartment. It showed a somewhat younger Natasha, her once sable brown hair streaked with white. 

Four years ago, reunited after an over 30 year space of time, Victoria and Ivan had visited Natasha in Moscow. Her hair at that time had been white streaked with brown. Now it was a uniform, pure white color, worn in a severe, shoulder length style that accentuated her strong cheekbones. Her eyebrows and lashes were still dark, the contrast in coloring giving her a more exotic beauty. Victoria rather envied the hair. She'd been "brightening" her own color for decades, rebellion against nature's choice of color pallet.

"Four years without a visit. How good it is to see you." Natasha kissed each side of Ivan's face. "The trip was horrible. Aleksandra moaned constantly."

Victoria held out her hand. "Welcome, Natasha. I like your hair."

Natasha considered the hand, then stepped in to lightly kiss Victoria on both cheeks. "Nature and artifice, equal parts. I must go say hello to Regina, then assist Aleksandra with some business."

"Dinner together this evening?"

"The hotel has made a small, private room available. It adjoins the hotel bar. I'll tell Regina to invite her young man's family as well." Natasha paused by the door. "You have met her Tony?"

"Yes, but there has been no chance to form an opinion."

"You will have Piotr compile a dossier on the family?"

Ivan smiled with a sideways glance at Victoria. "I will. The rest of Aleksandra's entourage --?"

"Competent." Natasha's lips pursed in a small grimace. "Both have at least been on foreign assignment before. You have no additional intel?"

"Not as yet. But someone has been tinkering with hotel's reservation system. When we arrived, our reservation had disappeared. I believe same was true for Regina. Piotr reinstated our reservation, and the concierge made good on bookings for Regina's group. Piotr says the entire second floor is reserved for guests who are not yet in residence."

Natasha nodded. "So. Call if you have more before this evening."

Ivan locked the door behind her. "Where were we?"

"Changing out of traveling clothes, headed for the shower." Victoria began to undress. "Sit down and call Piotr first. I'd like to know more about the Maynards before we have dinner with them tonight."

" _Da._ " Ivan sat on the edge of the bed, watched as she removed her bra and panties. "Have I told you today how beautiful you are?"

"Voyeur." Victoria posed briefly in the doorway. "Hurry up, or you'll have to wash your own back."

Ivan simultaneously kicked off his shoes and reached for his phone.

 

**FRANK CARDEN: STALKING THE TARGET**

Carden did not believe any sane person could watch television for more than fifteen minutes without finding primitive hunting reflexes subtly awakened. Most people wouldn't know what was wrong with them, or what they should do with the nonspecific unease experienced during interminable commercial breaks. Carden thought about killing someone, preferably network or commercial advertising executives.

His decision to arrive a full day before James checked into the hotel had seemed like a prudent precaution. In light of the expanded entourage James was traveling with, and overheard information about obvious reservation manipulation, it had been the right move. But in keeping lowest possible profile, Carden had found himself unexpectedly impatient with the sequestration.

Magazines, newspapers, and a novel had filled part of the time. Several hours at the Museum had broken the monotony. This was the first job he'd undertaken in years where there was no one he could call for expanded intel and consultation. That James was exercising his talents on a major Incident was obvious. That the Museum was a target was obvious. The presence of a Russian gangster's sister was no coincidence. And the men around James were stone-cold professionals, although probably of varying levels of intelligence.

Carden had spent his first night at the Hotel James Hilton establishing a familiarity with the emergency stairs, the basement and the grounds around both hotel and museum. He slept most of the following day, putting his _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the exterior doorknob. The second night he kept to the shadows in the basement, watching men disappear through an improvised access door behind the furnaces, into what he assumed would be a utility vault located under the street between hotel and museum.

A preliminary feeling for the ebb and flow of staff had been established. The solid grandeur of the Hotel James Hilton was maintained by a skeleton crew, testimony to the bad economy and drop-off in tourism. The general manager and concierge, Mr. Hector, could be found wandering between hotel offices at odd hours in apparently tireless vigilance. So far as Carden could tell the fussy little man had no set routine. Today Mr. Hector had filled in for the usual morning desk personnel, who had failed to arrive for their shift.

Well, even a half-formed pattern was a pattern. He would have to expect that Mr. Hector could turn up anywhere, at any time.

It appeared that James kept to his suite and his men went to him. Considering these observations, Carden doubted he would get a chance at James until after the museum had been breached. Meanwhile, the second afternoon was ticking down. 

Carden's stomach growled. He opened the limited room service menu and scanned the offerings, then snapped the cover closed. No. He could catch a taxi near the museum and find real food. He glanced at the bedside clock. Too early for dinner. He'd wait another hour and a half, then saunter past the front desk, an old man in search of a simple bowl of soup.

 

**REGINA/TONY: UNPACKING**

"The museum has arranged for a buffet dinner, and we're all invited." Regina smoothed a finger over Tony's mustache and made a small, rotating motion with her pelvis that brought a whimpering noise from Tony, whose arms were currently locked behind his head, laced together with a pleather belt.

"Sounds nice. You accepted?"

"Provisionally. We need to ask what Victor and Rose would like to do. I don't want them to feel I'm pushing my family at them. What would you like me to do next?" Taking her cues from his barely focused eyes, Regina let her hands wander over her own body. 

Tony shivered and wiggled, digging in his heels and pushing back against her movements. "Ohgodamazingbrilliantfuckingorgeous . . . pinch my nipples, Reggie. Harder . . . oh, Reggie, harder. . . "

Regina complied, high on the rush of approaching orgasm. They both got there at nearly the same moment. Tony bucked and and surged as her own muscles clenched and unclenched. She sat on his hipbones for a moment, watched his eyes return to normal, then slipped the belt off his wrists.

"Love you Reggie." 

Tony's cheeks were flushed. Regina thought he looked like a rosy, damp, wasted cherub. "I know." She unstraddled him and lay on her stomach, head propped on her hand so she could watch the skin of his face return to its normal color.

In her business life Regina was familiar with two categories of restraints: humane accessories and devices that kept animals secure and safe, and inhumane devices that controlled or imprisoned animals. In her personal life, until Tony came along, Regina had never considered the idea of bondage or restraint to be sexually stimulating. While the modest restraint of hands that Tony sometimes favored did nothing for her, Regina found no reason to deny him enhanced pleasure. Careful questioning and observation indicated Tony had no dark desire to restrain her in any way. And he was always willing to use his hands any way she wanted, at any time she wanted.

 _Love you._ The idea was still a novelty to her. Regina had always been ruthlessly honest with herself about her choice in lovers, and she had never been moved to say "I love you" to any of them. Her parent's influence at work there. Their partnership had been the standard by which Regina knew she would always judge her own intimate relationships.

Her parents . . . 

Dulcinea Montjoy Hero had taught her eldest daughter by both word and deed to consciously work at seeing and understanding the nature of reality. With kindness, always, but also without making excuses for what she might see. 

While this philosophy may have had the potential to be nihlistic and depressing, Regina's father's contribution to her education added a magical, numinous quality to her examination of reality. Alexander Hero, ghost breaker, magician, inventor, saw extraordinary possibilities in the realities of the universe. These combined gifts of vision allowed Regina to not only perceive reality clearly, but also perceive ways in which reality could be altered.

Regina had begun by seeing Tony as a healthy male animal, nonagressive and domesticated, with a shy sense of humor and a foundation of self-assurance she hadn't understood until the Trilby incident. After assisting her lover in the calculated murder of another human being -- even such a human being as Dr. Trilby -- Regina had adjusted her understanding of Tony's character and capabilities without judgment.

She had also adjusted her understanding of her own character and capabilities. 

Questions had followed this adjustment; questions that Regina shrewdly deduced might be best be discussed with her Uncle Bear and Aunt Vee. 

"You're not having second thoughts. About me. About us." Tony had regained his normal complexion. "Only, I mean, our lifestyle is unorthodox, and . . ."

"We'll talk about it. You and I. You and I, Victor and Rose." Regina lay her palm on his chest, lightly. "I say: God created woman; woman chooses man. Without apology to Machiavelli. I love you, Tony."

 

**ROSE/VICTOR: UNPACKING**

Splashing sounds continued from the bathroom as Rose tip-toed gingerly across the carpet. Maynard found himself imagining that her small, elegant feet would glow like fine porcelain if held to the sun. His eyes traced the film of moisture on her forehead and temples; his need to name and categorize all of his reality fastened on the color of her cheeks and triumphantly offered _Rose_ as both color and transcendent identity. 

"I love older hotels. That's real marble in there, and so spacious." 

Maynard patted the bed next to him. "Angel is playing at being a dolphin?"

"Patrolling for killer sharks. I cautioned him about excessive splashing." Rose wore her favorite robe, a modest carnation colored garment of French terry. She climbed onto the bed and sighed as she relaxed. "When he's done he can have a nap, then I'll bathe."

Her feet were still warm from sitting on the edge of the tub, supervising Angel's ablutions. As intelligent as their son undoubtedly was, the need to clean specific portions of one's anatomy, (ears, neck, toes and more intimate crevices), had not yet moved from theory to practice. Maynard took one of her feet between his fingers, pressing, massaging. "It was a lengthy flight. He behaved very well."

"He certainly did." Rose pushed slightly against the pressure of Maynard's fingers. "That was very clever of you, to get him the iPad. Can you imagine having to pack and tote enough books and games to keep Angel busy in a confined space?"

"We must stay current with technological advances." Her skin felt like porcelain, holding the heat of a morning cup of Earl Grey. Maynard was aware of an alteration in the tempo of Rose's breathing. She flexed a smooth length of calf, and his hand slid from her foot to her ankle, then back again. 

"We must stay current with scientific advances," Rose agreed.

"I prefer to hold a book, myself. Angel seems quite at home doing his maths on the iPad. And the possibIiity of traveling with a compact source of reference materials may be useful in our line of work." Above her calf, the skin of her thigh was downy satin. Maynard closed his eyes and let his fingers stray, then return to her toes.

"Useful. So . . . incredibly . . . useful." 

"Perhaps Tony would keep Angel company while we dress for dinner." Rose's foot quivered in his hand, the release of tension accumulated from too many hours of sitting on a plane. "Shall I ring him, my love?"

"Yes, Mr. Maynard. Oh, yes!"

 

**MR. HECTOR WONDERS**

Mr. Hector hovered behind the staff as they lay linens and arranged the accoutrements necessary for an upscale buffet. He glanced at his watch. He expected the food to arrive within the hour, from a well-known area restaurant. It still rankled slightly, that Mrs. Sherman had not chosen to use Hotel James Hilton's fine in-house chef's talents.

"I expect there will be fifteen guests." Mrs. Sherman, CEO of the museum board of directors had called just before they began set-up in the Shangri-La banquet room. "Food will be delivered at 7:45 sharp. I appreciate your organizational talents, Mr. Hector. We are fortunate to have the Hotel James Hilton as a neighbor."

It was high praise from the formidable little woman, who was not only the museum's biggest champion, but active in promoting the economic health of area historic buildings and businesses. Mr. Hector planned to impress her again this evening, with the perfection of Hotel James Hilton's attention to detail.

"Excuse me, Mr. Hector." 

It was the housekeeping manager, a short, buxom, middle-aged woman with the unlikely name of Babette Tiddly. "Mrs. Tiddly? How may I help you?"

"I sent some of the staff home early. There was nothing to be done on the second floor today. I can't remember that ever happening, in all my years." Mrs. Tiddly twirled a bit of cotton fluff hair around one finger.

"I've placed a complaint with tech support." Mr. Hector had grave doubts that a husky-voiced individual named "Piggy" (at least he _thought_ that was the name the tech had given, although really how could anyone claim to be named _Piggy_ ) for whom English was clearly not a language spoken at home, would quickly solve their registration system snafu. "I've also alerted the owners. I expect we'll get a rush tomorrow late morning, with everyone checking in before the exhibition opening."

"Well, we're ready." Mrs. Tiddly shook her head. Her high, child-like voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "Also there's still gentlemen turning up in the basement. If you might have a word with them? Several of them don't look like the kind of male guests the ladies care to find themselves alone with, in a secluded area."

"That will be Mr. James' group." Mr. Hector sighed deeply. "They are scheduled to check out tomorrow, but I'll have another word. You'll be here until they clear away the buffet?"

"Of course. I hope you'll leave after that as well. I understand you've been here since five this morning."

"I'll be off as soon as Mr. Ansara checks in for the late shift. Thank you for your concern, and excellent work, Mrs. Tiddly." Mr. Hector wondered, as she trudged off toward the business offices, whether there was any meaning behind the rapid twitching of her eyes. It had almost looked as if she was fluttering her lashes at him.

 

**P.D. JAMES: THE INCIDENT PROGRESSES**

"We're through the wall, boss." Poe considered this announcement to be worth some praise. The men were an hour ahead of schedule.

"Excellent. The security system?"

"There's a two-man team that changes at 10:15. After that, whenever you give the go-ahead, the entire Russian wing is ours."

James consulted his watch, then his laptop. "Dinner is scheduled to begin shortly after 8:00. You're ready to move on remaining personnel?"

"Yes, sir. No later than 9:30 p.m., this hotel will be closed for business. We have a secure storage room in the basement for remaining on-site personnel and guests." Poe groped at the leather case on his belt and extracted his phone. "Yeah. Yeah. Okay." He put the phone away. "Mr. Machen says the museum director, her husband and two of the museum board of directors, all traveling together, were just in a car accident. They've been taken to a nearby hospital for treatment of whiplash, cuts and abrasions, possible concussion. They won't make the buffet."

"Good. I've tried to keep the guest list exclusive." James took a flick knife from his pocket and began to trim his nails. "No loose ends, Poe. I want all the guests and personnel accounted for. It was a bad day for Incident Management when the cell phone was invented. One sharp-eyed granny with a cell phone can destroy hundreds of man hours of hard work and preparation."

"I know," Poe said patiently. "We'll round up remaining personnel while most of the guests are eating. We'll pick off the old black guy, and make sure no one else is still on the third floor. When everyone is accounted for, the front door will be locked, signage put in place to discourage latecomers."

 _Signage._ James winced. "Service doors?"

"Locked first," Poe said patiently. "All secured, boss. We'll take the guests in the banquet room last, sort out your merchandise and put the rest into storage."

James stuck the knife into the wood of desk, noticing with approval that it was solid wood construction, not veneer. He checked his watch. "Then it's just a matter of time. Stay on top of things, Poe."

"Will do, boss. If any of the guests try to take a wander outside?"

"Unless it is Ms. Petrova, follow them and kill them. Discreetly."

 

**VICTORIA/IVAN: DISCUSSION**

"What did Piotr find?"

"Surprisingly little. He continues making careful inquiries." 

Ivan's hair was still damp from their shower, curling into a wave near the nape of his neck. Victoria was unable to keep her fingers from combing through the wave. Ivan had told her of one assignment, when he was so much younger, when he had worn a short ponytail and written bad poetry. Much of his life was only a mosaic of stories to her, but Victoria's imagination had improved over the last three years of living in close proximity with his exuberant tendency to tell tales both tall and true. She could almost see him, young and intense, declaiming the virtues of the worker in formal verse. He would be wearing a peasant's shirt, hair gathered at the neck, eyes on fire as he worked to engage a gathering of wannabe communists.

Victoria bent and kissed a spot behind his ear. 

Ivan reached for her hand, drew her around from in back of the couch. "Sit next to me. See --" he pointed to the laptop screen. "There is more information to be found on Maynard's father and mother, although that is scanty as well."

"Assassins?" Victoria squinted at the screen. She had begun to find reading glasses mandatory instead of merely helpful. "Extraordinary. Does Regina know, I wonder?"

"Direct questions will be best." Ivan sat back, letting her settle next to him. "We have discussed Regina's activities."

"We've helped her," Victoria said absently, sliding her hand between the buttons on his shirt. "Piotr's fed her a lot of intel over the last few years. She's left a trail of bumps and bruises, stolen property and animals, but no deaths."

"Rose Maynard was arrested for theft, prior to her marriage, but never convicted," Ivan continued. "Regina's boyfriend, Tony, was legally adopted by the couple six years ago, just before the birth of their child. He has no record of criminal activity of any kind."

"Unusual. But Regina's always looked for the less obvious way to get from point A to point B. You're right. Direct questions." She stroked a circle around the circumference of one of his nipples. "Ivan, when you finish being an ambassador, will you let your hair grow long enough to tie back? Will you dress in a cossack shirt, tall leather boots and read poetry to me?"

Ivan shut the laptop and pulled her onto his lap. "I would not object to any of those things. Did you have a preference in trousers, to complete costume?"

"If trousers had any part of that fantasy, I would have included them. What about you? Is there some fantasy I can help you realize?"

" _Milaya moya._ When I hold you, I hold the key to all my fantasies."

Victoria traced his lower lip, the cleft in his chin. "My Russian poet. Shall I ring up Regina, ask her to come speak with us?"

"In a few minutes . . ."

 

**VICTORIA/IVAN/REGINA: THE FAMILY BUSINESS**

"Now, tell us all about Tony."

Regina had last seen them in person -- how long ago? Four years? It was easy to lose track of time, when one or both of them Skyped, texted or called her almost weekly. The glow around them wasn't so apparent long-distance. At close quarters the pair of them gave her the impression of satiated cats studying a Regina-mouse. It occurred to her, (as she tried not to squirm like a child explaining why there were thirteen baby kittens in her wardrobe), that Victor and Rose radiated the same sense of well-being and content when they were together. It was the same glow that illuminated memories of her mother and father, Regina realized with a surge of nostalgia and love. 

"I suppose Piotr's been tattling." Regina pointed accusingly at the laptop. "You are a pair of right nosy buggers."

"We are." Ivan grinned and shrugged. "As Joe used to say --"

"Knowledge is power. I miss Uncle Joe." Regina took a deep breath. "The Maynard family business is killing people for money. If you want to know what kind of people they are, what their ethics and code of conduct are, you'll have to interrogate them and make your own determination. I've only recently met them. But I like Victor and Rose. Mother Maynard is scary, though," she added, in an effort at complete disclosure. "I would have brought her as well, but she's confined to a wheelchair, and couldn't face the trip."

"And Tony --?" Victoria asked.

"Is learning the family business." Regina rushed on. "I met Tony when he brought the Maynard family cat to my office. We began seeing each other, socially. A romantic attachment developed. Recently, I inadvertently found myself in a situation where it was necessary to assist him in a retirement."

Ivan pulled at his beard, frowning. "Dr. Trilby? The animals disappeared the day after his untimely demise by misadventure."

"Piotr," Regina muttered.

"Don't blame Piotr. I asked him to follow all animal-related incidents, and that one was nearly in your backyard," Victoria said. "We love you, Regina. You haven't been trained for that kind of life."

"Regina is very sensible." Ivan took Victoria's hand. "Do you love him?"

Over the last four years, Regina had often wondered if she would ever know the full story of Uncle Bear and Aunt Vee's romance. She had wondered if there would ever be a man who looked at her the way Ivan looked at Victoria. Then Tony had lifted Snowball Two from her carrier, smiled shyly, and asked Regina if she fancied getting something to eat, and if she might consider going to bed with him. The memory still brought a flush to her cheeks. "Yes. I love him."

"What have you shared with Tony, about us?"

"Tony, Victor and Rose know you are acting as Ambassador over here. They know Natasha is your cousin, that she is head of the security detail for Aleksandra."

"They will assume things about our past duties," Ivan said. "Have you told him of Victoria's former occupation?"

"No. I said she was a friend of mother's, who had married an American." Regina had been hesitant to mention any connection to high level law enforcement of any kind to the Maynards.

"For now, that is enough."

"I'm happy for you, Regina." Victoria leaned against Ivan's shoulder, smiled and winked. "He has lovely red hair, good manners, and a tight little arse. Based on personal experience --"

"Do not tease her." Ivan checked his watch. "There will be time to speak with your Tony and his parents later. You have all been invited to dinner downstairs?"

"Yes." Regina left her chair, pushed between the coffee table and couch, and knelt between the two of them. "I've missed you both."

"We've missed you, as well. When's the last time you spoke with your mother?" Victoria touched her cheek. "Never mind. No scolding. We'll have a nice, long talk later."


	3. Chapter 3

**FRANK CARDEN: DOPPELGANGER**

Carden stood with his ear pressed against the door of his room. The low murmur of female voices had come and gone, and now the hallway was silent. Hotel James Hilton's solid old structure made it nearly impossible to hear sounds that would be constant background noise in a newer hotel. When his stomach growled again, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. 

He'd been placed in one of two suites farthest from the elevator, closest to the emergency stairs. That suited him fine. But it meant walking past the rest of the suites to get to the elevator. Not particularly wanting to meet up with other guests, Carden walked quickly down the hallway. He'd almost made it to the elevator, only two deluxe suite doors left to pass, when the right hand doorway opened and a woman and man stepped into the hallway. Carden nodded, prepared to continue on by without a word. The expression on the woman's face stopped him dead.

"Joe?" 

Blonde. Classic Caucasion features. Older than a first impression would suggest, casually elegant in a sweater dress that showed firm curves and the clean lines of her legs. There was no mistaking the shock in the woman's voice, the expression of shock on her face. It was an expression mirrored, although partially masked, on the man's face.

"Sorry?" Carden wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to back away from her, an ominous muscle response. Assuming his Konrad identity should have been automatic and effortless. Frank Konrad would have no reason to back away from a mature blonde who thought he looked like someone she knew.

"He is not Joe." 

Russian accent. The man placed a hand on the woman's arm, a gesture of support and comfort. 

"But -- my god. Look at him, Ivan." Narrow-eyed evaluation replaced shock; laser intense focus raked over him from head to toe. A UK English accent rounded off the corners of her consonants. "Who are you?"

"Frank Konrad. Do I take it I look like someone you know?" His fingers itched to go for the gun he was wearing at the small of his back. There was something about the two of them that made the hair on his neck prickle. One thing he'd learned over the years -- not to ignore those involuntary reactions caused by the mind's processing subtle clues a person didn't even realize they were picking up on.

The opposite doorway opened. A tall, white-haired woman paused, one hand on the door frame, assessing the three of them with professional intensity. Her hand flew to her mouth as soon as she met his eyes.

"Ivan. You said he was dead." Another Russian. She took a step into the hallway, calling two words in Russian over her shoulder: _queen red_ , then shutting the door behind her. "Joe?"

"He's not Joe. We buried Joe." 

Six simple words. The blonde's eyes still assessed him, recorded his every expression. Trained as he was in reading body language, micro-expression and voice inflection, Carden was unprepared for the dissonance between her calmly spoken words and the meteoric passing of brilliant anger and loss betrayed by the widening of her eyes, the tightening of muscles along her jawline.

"He's wearing a gun. Waistband," the man -- Ivan? -- said.

"Yes." Almost without seeming to move, the white-haired woman had a gun in her hand. "I would rather not further upset Aleksandra. We just learned the museum director has been in a car accident. May we use your suite?"

Ivan was already swiping his key across the reader. The blonde woman went past him quickly.

"After you. Move very carefully."

Carden moved carefully. He was greeted by the sight of an older Walther PPK.

"Put your hands on top of your head. I'm sure you know how this goes." The blonde's posture was relaxed, aim rock steady.

"Whatever you say. I'd like to know what _Joe_ did to merit this kind of reception, though." Carden put his hands on top of his head. The weight of his gun disappeared. Quick, professional hands explored the rest of his body.

"Please, take seat on the couch." The Russian woman examined his knife and his wallet. She handed the driver's license and credit card to Ivan, who produced a laptop computer.

"Hold up your hands, palms toward me. Do not blink." He aimed his phone at Carden, took several seconds of footage. "Now, palms on your knees."

Pros, then. They were old professionals. The presence of the Russians could mean they were Petrov's people. Certainly the Russian woman was part of security for Aleksandra Petrova. Carden watched Ivan with interest as he spoke briefly into his phone, then worked on the laptop.

From behind him: "Did Joe have family, a twin?"

"His only brother died in prison. Except for his father, there was no other male relative he ever mentioned." The blonde held his eyes, searching for something. "He even has Joe's dimple."

"This seems like over-reaction to finding someone's doppelganger," Carden said easily. "I'm a private investigator. I have a permit for a concealed carry."

The blonde made a school-teacherish hmmpphing noise. "The old lies are always the best."

"Frank Carden." Ivan looked up from his laptop. "And it seems Piotr will have to put out any fires he sparked with his queries about you. Would you care to tell us who your target is, Mr. Carden?"

Interesting. Only those few words and he saw comprehension on the blonde's face, heard a small intake of breath from the Russian woman behind him. "Now that you all know my real name, it might be nice to introduce yourselves, so I know who I'm speaking with."

"Ivan Simanov, currently Ambassador for the Russian Federation. Behind you, Natasha Miranova, security for Aleksandra Petrova. The woman holding the gun -- Victoria Winslow, formerly of MI6."

Not good, that he'd been given their real names so quickly, with such self-assurance. Carden saw the small twitch of Winslow's eyebrow, and knew she was surprised as well. 

"Something tells me this is the closest I've come to ending up in a landfill in the last ten years or more." He smiled at her, saw the barest hint of softening in her face.

"He's not Joe," Simanov said quietly.

Winslow's eyes changed, although her body language had not altered in the slightest. Carden let his smile fade to a neutral expression of attention. She would kill him quickly and efficiently, without hesitation. Leftovers from KGB and MI6 -- and not just professionals, but something elusive, dark and very, very dangerous.

"There's a man in this hotel, registered under the name of Henry James. He's my target. I can't tell you who's paying for the job. You must know that's not unusual."

"P.D. James. You were hired to kill P.D. James?" Simanov entered a staccato burst on his keyboard. "Do you know why he's here?"

"I guess it's because Yevgeny Petrov's sister is here. I guess it's about the exhibit of Russian art that's going to open in the museum across the street, tomorrow," Carden said.

Victoria Winslow watched him with unwavering, relaxed attention, as if she could maintain her stance for hours without effort. Distractingly, the sweater dress emphasized the heavy fullness of her breasts. This contrast between her actions and her appearance had an unusual effect on Carden, who appreciated female beauty but never mixed work and pleasure. It was too easy to get your balls blown off, if you started thinking more about your balls than your job.

"I'm working without a team. Last job I did, some whacked-out broad in the bureau tried to have me retired, using a planted team member. Since she was the one that hired me, and I was the only one left standing, I haven't worked for quite a while." Carden saw Simanov frown at this computer screen. "If our objectives are similar, perhaps we could share information."

"Two other people in your line of work, who I would have rated near your apparent level of competence, have dropped from view in the last three months."

Behind him, Miranova's voice seemed to come closer: "Ivan . . ."

"Not now." Simanov shut the laptop. "How can I trust one who kills for money?"

"That's a bit hypocritical, Ivan," Winslow said. "And it's a conversation we've had recently."

"You think an order from some faceless official is somehow more defensible, more ethical?" Carden shook his head, finding an old knot of mulish rebellion still tight in his gut. "You think killing for your country is nobler than killing for a living?"

"Such a discussion could go on for a very long time." Simanov checked his watch. "We will bring him to dinner with us. Victoria --"

Carden watched, fascinated as Winslow broke stance and went into the bedroom. When she returned her sweater dress had been exchanged for a tailored pantsuit and white blouse. Carden was sure the Walther was now under her arm.

"You think it's a good idea to have everyone tasty in one room, at one time?" He saw Simanov thinking it over. "They've been working in the basement. There's access behind the heating plant, to the utility vault under the street. Museum guards change out at 6:15 a.m., 2:15 p.m. and 10:15 p.m. Three guards on during the day, two at night."

Simanov looked at him, looked through him. "Victoria, bring Regina and the Maynards. Natasha, bring Aleksandra and her security."

Both women left without a word of response. Carden kept his palms on his knees and waited. "I don't get the feeling Winslow held down a desk at MI6. Is she your woman?"

Simanov smiled. "She is her own woman, but I have great honor to share her life." His amusement disappeared. "I will not accept any collateral damage among these people. These are family, and friends, Mr. Carden. If I think you are a danger to them, or that your actions will put them in danger, I will kill you -- if Victoria or Natasha does not kill you first. Is this clear?"

"I understand. All I want is James. What else do you want?"

"We will speak of that when the others are present." Simanov stood, one hand in a jacket pocket. "I must decide whether you can be included in our discussion."

"Who was Joe?"

"Yes. That is not in your favor. They will look at you, and although their minds know you are a stranger, their instincts may supply inappropriate reactions. Joe Matheson was a retired CIA agent, shot and killed in an ambush. More than that I will not tell you, and you should not ask."

"Okay." Carden nodded. "If you're expecting a crowd, you want me to move off this couch to a chair?"

"Please." Simanov indicated the chair he was standing beside. "And keep your hands on the arms."

 

The presence of a kid surprised him; little nip couldn't have been older than five or six. He trailed into the room clutching what looked like a hairy briefcase with legs and a tail, holding the hand of a red-haired young man. They took the spot on the couch Carden had previously occupied.

Miranova returned with an exquisite platinum blonde woman and two guards. These were sent back into the corridor with a few words from Simanov. Winslow's group included the kid and young man, a thin man who looked to be in his mid-to-late 50s, and two attractive, dark-haired women. The older of the two stared at him, eyes so wide she looked like a Japanese cartoon.

"Regina -- he is not Joe." Simanov remained beside his chair, something Carden regretted. He wanted to watch the man's face during the conversation that was going to follow. "His name is Frank Carden. He is a mercenary, an assassin."

"I know his reputation. It was believed he was dead." The thin man with precisely crossed legs examined him from head to toe, seeming to linger longest on his hands curled over the chair arms.

"He holds a contract against a man presently in residence in this hotel, a Mr. P.D. James. Before we speak more on this, the decision must be made whether to include, or exclude, Mr. Carden."

"Does this have anything to do with the fact that Ms. Petrova's brother is a notorious Russian criminal?" the younger woman asked. Her eyes darted between the people in the room, alive with interest and speculation.

The platinum blonde held up her hand, a regal gesture that demanded attention. "Perhaps introductions, first. I am Aleksandra Petrova. My brother, Yevgeny, is a successful entrepreneur."

The thin man stood and made a small bow. "Rose was not offering any condemnation, Miss Petrova. Victor and Rose Maynard; our sons Tony and Angel. Very pleased to meet you."

"And I am Regina Hero. You may know my mother, Dulcinea Mountjoy Hero?" The older of the two young women stood behind the couch, near the Maynards' sons.

"Of course, although it has been many years." Petrova nodded regally. "Natasha tells me I may be in danger from this P.D. James."

"May I suggest that Mr. Carden be included in our discussion." Maynard resumed his seat, recrossed his legs. "If it becomes necessary, he can easily be -- excluded -- later."

There was a general murmur of agreement. Carden felt his muscles relax slightly, another revealing reaction to his environment. He started to smile. He wasn't completely sure why he felt so at home, but something told him he might have found a new team.

 

**REGINA: ROLE MODELS**

The question came up for the first time, in Regina's mind, when she was sixteen. Why it had never occurred to her to wonder sooner she later put down to the fact Aunt Vee's visits were infrequent, and in the spaces between her mother always relayed Aunt Vee's doings (gathered from letters in parcels, and phone calls) as if she were some kind of ambassadorial staff person, always being sent to an interesting part of the world.

 _What does Aunt Vee do?_

Regina remembered the look on her mother's face after she asked the question. She had recognized it as the one Prime Minister Dulcinea Mountjoy Hero often wore when explaining something to the Leader of the Loyal Opposition during sessions of parliament. Cautious. Confiding. But vague.

"Victoria works for the British government, Regina. MI6. It's much like being a constable."

"I _know_ what MI6 is, mother." This was interesting. It explained Aunt Vee's last visit, when she'd found out about the addition of judo and karate to Regina's curriculum, and shown her a few throws and holds that later surprised Regina's teacher. "She's a spy, like Uncle Bear."

This statement had resulted in a look Regina could _never_ remember seeing on her mother's face. "What do you mean?"

"Uncle Bear works for the KGB. He travels all over the world, too." Her mother's mouth opened. Regina rushed on. "Something I heard father say."

"Regina Victoria Hero. You know the rule we have about eavesdropping, and state secrets? It applies to your aunt and uncle as well. Anything you know about them, or think you know, you lock away and keep to yourself."

Regina didn't mind doing that. She was a naturally reticent person. 

Observation and deduction were qualities that made her a good vet. Regina watched Ivan, Victoria and Natasha with a raptor's fierce attention. _Knowing_ they had been spies was one thing. The swift, decisive actions now being played out in front of her was evidence they had never stopped being professionals. It made her feel that her own forays into the world of clandestine operations for animal rights were amateur in the extreme. 

Ivan led them through the raw information, stopping at strategic moments for analysis. Regina glanced at Tony, who was hanging on Ivan's every word. It gave her a little shiver of pleasure, and revelation. She'd had a child's crush on Uncle Bear. When she was old enough to explore her sexuality there had been a string of auburn-haired men, most intelligent and decent, but none with the illusive quality that defined Ivan Simanov.

Regina's virginity was purposefully abandoned during an interlude with a Hungarian bird watcher, come to see Grand Fenwick's forest. He had been built like Ivan's younger self, much like Tony, now that she thought about it: compact, with hard muscled legs from walking over most of Europe, dark auburn hair, and a mustache that curled at the ends. Regina remembered the encounter fondly, remembered his excitement over bird watching, and the small, common forest animals. She remembered the way constant laughter crinkled the corners of his blue eyes.

Ivan's eyes strayed from his laptop to Victoria's face, and Regina shivered again. They would probably never tell her their entire story. Regina was sure if she held an ice cube between those two sets of eyes, it would vaporize.

Tony's attention drifted from Ivan to meet her searching gaze. His rapt focus on business altered to shy pleasure as she smiled at him. Ice cubes might not vaporize between them, but there was plenty of heat, and what Regina was beginning to suspect would turn out to be an inexhaustible supply of steady, comforting warmth.

Regina shifted slightly in her chair. If she had been wearing panties, they would have been a little damp.

 

**FRANK CARDEN: WHO'S IN CHARGE IN USUALLY OBVIOUS**

"Victoria, if you would? I need laptop." 

Victoria changed places with Ivan, settling just behind Carden's easy peripheral vision, leaving her a strategic view of everyone in the room, and the door. 

"It is 7:00. We should be in buffet room shortly after 8:00. Natasha, you had news from museum director?"

"In a car accident, with others from museum. The message for Aleksandra said they would not see her until tomorrow, before the opening."

"Not an accident," Maynard said.

"No." Ivan checked his laptop screen. "Mr. Frank Carden has a contract, source unidentified, on Mr. P.D. James. Mr. James has been hired by Thierry Maimonides to manage an incident involving Aleksandra Petrova and the museum's new Russian exhibit. Our profile suggests he seeks vengeance for the death of his son, for which he blames Petrov, and a way to strike a crippling blow at Petrov's business."

"Mr. Carden has the right references for the job," Maynard said. "What do you have planned for Maimonides, Ambassador Simanov?"

It was such an elegantly to-the-point question that everyone in the room visibly relaxed. 

"We will kill him." Ivan's eyes went briefly to Victoria, then returned to the laptop. "My analyst has offered some insights about Maimonides' behavior."

"They're going into the museum tonight," Carden said. "They'll take the most valuable pieces from the exhibit. Not only because of the value of the pieces, but Maimonides will be saying to Petrov -- _I can take what is yours, and the entire world will know it._ "

"Miss Petrova will be taken," Rose said. "He'll ask for a huge ransom."

"But he has no intention of returning me to my brother alive." Aleksandra's voice was soft and sad. "Yevgeny will pay the ransom, and Maimonides will have me killed."

"Leaving Maimonides with the art, the ransom money, and revenge for the death of his son. After these transgressions, there will be open war between two crime organizations resulting in much more destruction of life and property. My analyst agrees with each of you." Ivan keyed a brief burst into the computer. "Piotr says telephone landlines into the hotel have been taken out of commission. He believes jamming of wifi and cellular signals will occur soon. There is insufficient time to plan for every permutation, so we must use our goals to guide us as events transpire."

"Perhaps you should formalize those goals, Simanov." There was no doubt in Carden's mind about who was best qualified to act as project leader here. 

The old Russian raised an eyebrow. "In no particular order, then -- kill P.D. James; kill Thierry Maimonides; return any stolen art to museum; return Aleksandra to Moscow . . ."

"Alive," Aleksandra interrupted. "First class, not sealed box."

"Yes. Is goal." 

"How will we establish the link from James to Maimonides?" Tony asked. "Doubt if he'll come here."

"James will take me, and lead you to Maimonides," Aleksandra said. "I trust Ivan and Natasha will not let the _mudilo_ kill me."

"I won't let him kill you." Victoria stepped toward Ivan, hand extended. "Give me a patch."

"In my shaving kit. Aleksandra, go with Victoria."

"Are you chipping her?" Regina asked. "Some kind of GPS application?"

"Is it something I could use for Angel?" Rose smoothed the hair away from her son's forehead with a smile. The boy was intently playing a game on his iPad, oblivious to the adults around him. "Statistics indicate they would be unlikely to _directly_ cause him physical harm during the initial stage of the incident, but we may become separated during a confused action."

"Based on James' profile, he'll most likely put all of the staff and guests into a locked room, then start a fire in the hotel." Carden's eyes were on Angel as he spoke. "Fire or explosion. He doesn't like to kill one on one; he likes to _arrange_ for people to die. You should take the boy and hide."

Maynard's hand went to his wife's. "It may not be a bad thing, to have you and Angel on the periphery of action."

Rose smiled. "Clever man."

"I'll take them out of the hotel, then return through one of the back ways," Carden said. "That puts me on the periphery as well, if you need assistance."

"But, will they let us leave, Mr. Carden?" 

"One way or another, Mrs. Maynard." 

"Angel can perform the Inconveniently Ill Child scenario." Tony got Angel's attention by waving a hand in front of the game. "You up for a good vomit show, mate?"

"Mother? May I?" Angel's voice was eager.

"Perfect." Rose stood. "I'll mix some vomit."

 

**MR. HECTOR: SERVICE IN THE FACE OF ADVERSITY**

He seldom took the pills while working.

Mr. Hector shook a single tablet into his palm, popped it into his mouth and swallowed. The thing stuck on the back of his throat, taking several convulsive swallows to dislodge and send on its way to his stomach. For a moment he regretted the decision. He hadn't eaten anything since a quick breakfast of yogurt and fruit. While a slightly more mellow outlook might be beneficial, the tendency to fall asleep on his feet would be a less useful side effect of the drug.

"Do your best," he said to Mr. Ansara. "I used my cell phone to report the outage. I don't expect a service response before tomorrow morning. Please ring each room and update the guests. Emphasize that although the landlines are not working, anyone without a cell phone may come to the desk and use mine. Those who rely on in-room wireless access for Internet connection will no doubt be unhappy. If anyone demands some concession for the inconvenience, assure them I will be responding."

"Immediately, Mr. Hector."

Mr. Ansara was a thin, bald gentleman of Hispanic ethnicity; an unfailingly polite, reliable member of the Hotel James Hilton team. Years of working the night shift had proved him an imperturabable responder to guests' late night requests -- requests that predictably ranged from the lack of toothbrush or condoms to more exotic and specialized areas: where to obtain spumoni ice cream, or bondage cuffs, or occasionally where to find someone to demonstrate the use of bondage cuffs.

A wave of something like dizziness distorted his vision for a moment, then the world evened out as the elevator door opened and disgorged Mr. Konrad. The tall black man nodded at Mr. Hector as he stepped to the desk. 

"Is there somewhere in the area that serves Cajun food? I'd like a good bowl of gumbo."

Mr. Ansara gave brief verbal directions, and also wrote the restaurant's name and address on a slip of paper. Mr. Hector felt a warm glow of approval as Mr. Konrad requested, and was provided with, an area newspaper. 

Mr. Konrad moved to the end of the reception desk and stood, leafing through the newspaper.

Mr. Hector checked his watch unobtrusively, and found the numbers seemed a tad fuzzy. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and focused.

He would escort Miss Petrova to the banquet room, then retreat to his office. A nap in his reclining chair would complete the restorative action the drug had begun. In turning to face the elevator, he caught a small movement from the Alcove. It was one of Mr. James' group. Mr. Hector's mental rolodex flipped and came up with a name: Mr. Machen. Reviewing events of the day, Mr. Hector realized with instinctive unease that the man had been lurking around the Alcove since mid-morning. He took half a step toward the Alcove (intending to inquire whether Mr. Machen needed any service from the Hotel, at the same time letting the man know his presence had been Observed), but a discreet chime from the elevator doors diverted him.

"Miss Petrova!" Mr. Hector hurried toward her. She was surrounded by her people: two men in dark suits and a woman who looked enough like her to be a sister. Both striking older women, Mr. Hector thought, pulling his jacket straight. "The buffet awaits. I was so sorry to hear of Mrs. Sherman's mishap. Let me escort you --"

"Thank you. If we might wait for the remainder of our party?" 

Miss Petrova's soft voice, with the exotic musicality of a light Russian accent, sent a shiver of pleasure through Mr. Hector's increasingly flexible spine. "But of course." 

Why had he worried about taking the pill? Accumulated stress from dealing with the faulty reservation system, staff not calling in or showing up for work, communication system glitches, along with minor guest eccentricities -- all were downgraded from ravines of despair, and became mere hurdles in the daily race of hotel management. It was a race Mr. Hector would willingly run, if it meant the prize at the end was a guest like Miss Petrova.

The chime of the elevator interrupted his internal philosophizing. Mr. Hector waited patiently for genteel greetings between the guests to finish before intruding.

"My tummy hurts, mummy." The angelic child's voice rose above adult murmurs. "It really hurts."

"You're probably just hungry, my sweet." Mother and child moved slightly away from the group. "Where does it hurt?"

"My tummy. I'm going to be sick, mummy." 

Before Mr. Hector's horrified eyes, the child ran to the nearest wall, squatted and made a terrible sound. Paralysis brought on by the child's convulsive movements and retching noises was brief, however. The unfolding incident was not unknown to the Hotel James Hilton staff. Mr. Ansara already had phone in hand, paging a representative of housekeeping to hurry to the lobby.

"Angel. My sweet Angel." Mother gathered son into her arms, ignoring the dribble of vile brownish-green smeared on the lad's chin. "He gets these upsets when we travel. Is there a chemist somewhere in the area?"

 _Pharmacy,_ Mr. Hector interpreted, wondering what the child had been eating. The pool of gelatinous material near the wall looked like blenderized chocolate frog. "Not close. But if you are willing to take a taxi --"

Mr. Konrad folded the paper and stepped away from the reception desk. "Frank Konrad, ma'am. I was going out for a bowl of soup. Allow me to get you a taxi."

A flurry of questions, several people speaking at the same time, and Mr. Hector realized he was still staring at the vomit as the lobby doors closed behind Mr. Konrad, Mrs. Maynard and her son. 

"You said something about escorting us?" 

Miss Petrova's fingers touched his arm, reawakening Mr. Hector's ability to interact with his environment.

"It would be my very great honor." Mr. Hector's spine snapped to attention as Miss Petrova placed her hand lightly on his forearm. With a small sense of caution, he realized he was walking with an oddly springing step, as though maneuvering through deep drifts of leaves. The sensation was surprisingly pleasant.

Trusting Mr. Ansara to set the lobby to rights, Mr. Hector led the procession of guests toward the banquet room.

**FRANK CARDEN: MOTHER AND CHILD, IN UNION**

"Mr. Carden. You're so kind. Shall we walk to the corner before hailing a cab? Some physical exertion would be good for Angel."

Rose Vincent was a very lovely young woman; young enough to look more like the boy's sister or nanny than his mother. Carden wondered about her husband, so much older than she was, in a profession where few of his peers were family men. Or women. After an early divorce, he'd found the solitary life to be the preferred life. When a man got that itch there were plenty of places to get it scratched. There was no need to explain to a one night stand what he did for a living.

Conscious of the tail that had exited the hotel in their wake, Carden reviewed possibilities offered by the neighborhood. Across the street were broad lawns fronting museum grounds, perfectly flat and manicured emerald plush. One block further along, kitty corner from the intersection of the hotel's street and a crossway, glass glittered from long windows in a row of offices. He'd seen dumpsters in the alley behind those offices on his walk the previous evening.

"Let's cross the street, walk on the museum side. And keep the boy next to you. We've got company."

"I know." Rose took Angel's hand. "You have an idea?"

"He's going to be armed. We'll have to let him get close." With the museum and offices closed, traffic was light to nonexistent. Carden would have liked to lead the tail right to the alley, but with a woman and kid in tow that probably wouldn't work.

"Pick your place. We'll play One, Two, Tie Your Shoe." Rose sounded calm, almost bored. "Don't think of us as a woman and child. That's a dangerous assumption. We're professionals, Mr. Carden."

"I'll take your word on that." Carden's eyes had been on a stone bench just off the sidewalk. They were nearing the intersecting road. "Now."

"Angel, darling. One, two, tie your shoe."

"Mummy! Wait mummy!" Angel left the sidewalk to kneel on the grass and began working at the laces on his shoes. 

Rose stood over him, smiling. "Nicely done. The little brown snakes cross their tails . . ."

Their tail caught up in five swift strides. "I've got a gun. Don't make any sudden movements. We're going to walk back to the hotel together." 

Medium height, medium coloring, wearing a brown jacket with the collar turned up, the man would have been unremarkable except for the fact he was pointing a gun at Rose. He angled his body away from the street, minimizing any chance a passing motorist might see the weapon. Carden noticed Rose seemed unconcerned by the gun, seemed unconcerned for the safety of her child. _Seemed_ unconcerned . . . possibly because she was handling the aggressor with cool competence, working some script of her own. She raised one hand to her throat, extended the other as she said a single word: "Roll."

It was an axiom every professional knew: if you weren't prepared to shoot at a target, you didn't draw a gun. The choreographed maneuver between mother and child raised Carden's opinion of them considerably. Angel went from a stooping posture into a dive and roll into the gunman's legs. The gun wavered -- the man hesitated. He would have shot Rose; he wasn't prepared to shoot the child. Conflicting imperatives froze him for the crucial few seconds Rose needed only to swing her purse, batting the man's gun hand to one side. 

Under other circumstances the man would have probably dealt with any frontal assault from a woman like Rose, even without a gun. Under other circumstances, where a small boy was not fastened, limpet-like to one leg, with his teeth clamped into calf-muscle. A whine of pain as the man tried to raise his leg and shake off the child was followed by a high-pitched scream of distress. Rose had taken her opportunity, stepped foward and slammed her fist into his crotch.

Carden's almost eidetic memory recorded the tableau in slow motion. Gun falling to grass. Child somersaulting away a good 10 feet or more, to end up behind trunk of a friendly maple. Man dropping to knees, clutching crotch.

"Nice one." Carden joined Rose. "Dumpsters behind that row of office buildings." He stooped. His fist connected against the man's temple with a crack that made his knuckles throb. "Shit. Getting too old to do that."

"And yet it was most effective." Rose scooped the gun out of the grass. "How lovely. A free gun."

Between them Carden and Rose elevated and frog-marched the limp body across the street, down the nearest alley. Angel trailed, watching thoughtfully. They were lucky. No traffic passed, and as far as Carden could tell there was no one present in the ground floor office buildings. He ignored a couple of dumpsters before selecting a rather inoffensive bin that smelled of chemicals and paper.

"Take the boy to the alley entrance."

"Are you going to kill him? Is anyone paying you to kill him?" Rose stared down at the unconscious man. "Normally I'm quite pragmatic about these things." She rummaged in her purse. "Here."

Carden took the plastic zip-restraints, racheted the man's hands and feet together, then deposited the man into the dumpster. "Nice piece of work. Simple. Effective." He dropped the dumpster lid. "I know a way to get in at the back of the hotel."

"Very good."

Angel skipped ahead of them, kicking stones.

"You can ask. I don't mind."

"He's barely a kid." Although psycho killers had to start sometime, Carden mused. "Most mothers wouldn't care to let their child risk his life . . ."

"Mr. Maynard and I spoke at length on the subject of children before we were married. And after. We decided our children would need skills, would need to function as part of the family team. I can't protect myself if I have to worry about protecting Angel every moment." Rose turned to face Carden as they caught up with Angel, dutifully waiting at the crosswalk. "Don't misunderstand. I would give my life to protect either my husband or child. The goal is that none of us ever have to give our lives. The strategy to achieve that goal: physical and mental training, and rather unconventional education in specific areas."

"How does he do with other kids?" And small animals, Carden added silently. They crossed the street, walking at a brisk pace along the museum side of the street. "We're going a block past the hotel before we take a right."

"Angel is a normally social child, generally liked by his peers. He does quite well. Although we do have a problem with bullies."

"Because he's so pretty? What?" Carden was startled by Rose's cascading peals of laughter.

"Bless you," she managed, eventually. "Our Angel is a beautiful child, I'll give you that. But no. Any bullying behavior in his vicinity, regardless of the target, is discouraged. Discouraged to a sometimes alarming degree."

Carden wondered what Rose might find to be _alarming_. "Physical, mental, emotional intimidation?" Angel's slight body was lithe, fit, but so small. Carden watched the boy skip ahead and thought of the feral cats that lived in back of his current residence.

"Creative persuasion to make good behavior choices," Rose said primly. "He's a very pragmatic child, much like his mother. And clever, much like his father. Do we have a plan for after we enter the hotel, Mr. Carden?"


	4. Chapter 4

**REGINA: BUFFET INTERRUPTED**

"Nice buffet."

Tony's plate was loaded with salad, fruit, and a piece of the same smoked salmon Regina had selected. He always made the effort when they were out, to avoid eating meat in front of her -- even when his eyes glazed over at the sight of someone being served a cheeseburger. Regina had never made a big statement about her dietary choices. It warmed her straight through when she realized what close attention Tony paid to her nonverbal signals.

"Yes. It's a shame Rose and Angel are missing it. Do you think --?" 

"They're okay." Tony looked vaguely around, letting his gaze drift over the two men working behind the small bar across from the buffet. His voice dropped to a quiet monotone. "Rose can take care of herself, and that Mr. Carden is a professional."

"So. I have a meeting tomorrow afternoon, then the exhibition opening in the evening. I haven't had a chance to ask if there's something you, Victor, Rose and Angel would like to see or do while we're here."

"Not sure. Have to ask." Tony's eyes focused on Maynard across the table. His adoptive father was seated next to Ivan, and the two of them seemed to be doing more talking than eating. "Rose wanted to tour the museum with Angel."

"Let's hope that's possible." Regina ate her fruit slowly, chewed thoroughly, and casually evaluated the tables around her. Her eye was far from trained, but she was a keen observer and had learned a trick or two during her years of activism. 

There was no visual clue that the polished, cultured group dining and conversing around her were extremely dangerous people. Aunt Vee and Natasha looked like mature movie stars; Aleksandra and Ivan were less high-ranking apparatchik than royalty from another age. Victor Maynard exuded the calm of an upper-upper level civil servant. Only Aleksandra's guards' appearance and function were perfectly matched and obvious. They ate, one at a time, seated at a table that commanded a view of the entries to the room.

"Victor likes talking to your Uncle. I think he wants to learn to speak Russian." Tony kept his voice low, targeted for Regina's hearing only. "He taught himself to speak French. He told me Mother Maynard was after him for years to acquire a second language. She thought it would make him more marketable. Victor found reasons to put it off. Until he heard a French torch singer during one London trip." 

It came to Regina suddenly that Tony had found something of a soul mate in Victor Maynard. _Late bloomers_ and _closet romantics_ were phrases that came to mind. All the tidbits Tony had confided during their courtship seemed to rush into a cohesive pattern. 

It took some people longer than others to figure out who they were and what they wanted from life. What they were good at. Regina herself had never experienced this transition, being decided upon her course in life at the moment she found her first dead mouse, then toddled from dungeon to attic disposing of the castle's traps. But Tony, barely navigating the choppy waters of public education, finding himself in a leaky boat on the sea of unskilled employment, had been thrown a life jacket. And with Victor's assistance, he'd altered that life jacket to a neat suit and tie, quietly growing competence and confidence. 

"Would you like a tea?"

Tony's question interrupted her contemplation. "Yes. But I'll go up with you." Regina followed him to the table that bore a coffee pot and hot water dispenser. Because she was facing away from the entrance to the room, decanting hot water into a cup, it was sound rather than sight that informed her the first move had been made. Even before she heard the harsh command a quality of stillness swept through the air behind her.

"Everyone, please remain as you are, and make no sudden movements."

From the corner of her eye, Regina saw Tony go immobile, like a tried and true Irish setter on-point. His hand remained poised above a cup, holding a teabag.

"You two -- the security gentlemen. Raise your hands slowly and lock them behind your heads. At the buffet -- turn around slowly, then stand absolutely still."

Three men stood in the formal entrance, one hanging back slightly. It was the men who had been working the bar, and from Carden's description, P.D. James in person. The faux-bartenders carried one AK47, one handgun that Regina did not recognize. James was not holding a gun, but wore a shoulder holster openly over his black turtleneck.

"What do you want?"

"Ambassador Simanov." Expressionless black eyes flicked over Ivan, moved to Natasha and Aleksandra. "You will figure it out eventually. For now I prefer you do not speak." James consulted an oversized watch and nodded. "While my timetable can accommodate messy variables, I abhor improvisation. It is not my intention that any one of you be injured at this time, however deviation from the instructions I am about to give will be corrected with bullets. With this in mind, Miss Hero, you will be the first to come forward and be searched."

A surge of adrenalin and anger raced through Regina's skin. She heard Tony's hiss of warning, and forced herself to remain calm as she walked toward James and his men. Uncle Bear and Aunt Vee were trusting her to remain compliant, and she wouldn't fail them.

  


**MR. HECTOR: INTO THE CLOSET**

It wasn't the first nap he'd ever taken behind his desk. Lately Mr. Hector had slept more hours in the comfortable office chair than in his own bed.

Overhead lights were off. The green glow from his antique banker's lamp cast a soothing lozenge of light on the cherry-tinted desktop, creating a hypnotic focus when his eyelids were at half-mast. He wasn't sure how long he'd drifted, carried away by extended hours on the job and a muscle relaxant. Mr. Hector lifted his wrist to check his watch, a movement that seemed to be accomplished through abnormal resistance in the air.

9:01 p.m. He'd been dozing for a little over an hour. He really should check to make sure staff was setting the Hilton Room to rights after the buffet, check to make sure Mr. Ansara was coping with recent communication issues, and any resulting complaints from their guests.

Maybe in another 15 minutes. 

Mr Hector let his eyes shutter down. For now, he was adrift in a comfortable, inflatable raft, rocked by gentle waves, puzzled by a whistling noise . . . was his raft deflating?

"Wakey, wakey. And stop the teapot impersonation, lady, or I'll duct-tape your mouth."

_Lady?_ Mr. Hector opened his eyes to a further puzzlement. "Mr. Poe? It's clear Mrs. Tiddly does not care to have a gun pointed at her."

"Easy to remedy." Mr. Poe gestured with said gun. "That door leads to a closet."

Mr. Hector took in Mrs. Tiddly's expression of wide-eyed distress, the fact her hands were clutched against her ample chest with so much force her fingernails had gone bone-white. The door in question opened to an old-fashioned cupboard with just enough room for a coat bar and shallow shelving for a few office supplies. The question of why Mr. Poe would be interested in it caused Mr. Hector's mental processes, which were not coming up to speed as quickly as seemed necessary, to totally freeze.

"Well. Yes."

"That was an observation, not a question. Off your duff old man, and follow the tea-kettle into the closet." 

"Wouldn't let me clean, Mr. Hector. Wouldn't even let me clear away the leftover food." Mrs. Tiddly's already high voice rose to a pitch Mr. Hector could only remember hearing from an inebriated parent who had inhaled helium at a disastrous children's birthday party. She emitted another whistle of protest as she opened the door and stepped into the closet. "Took the guests. They took the guests."

Somehow, Mr. Hector was on his feet, hands braced on his desk. He glared at Mr. Poe. "I don't understand."

Mr. Poe rolled his eyes and rubbed his temple with the hand which did not hold the gun. "If you'd rather be shot, dude, just say so. I'm thinking that might be a mercy."

"You're no gentleman." Mrs. Tiddly's voice dropped half an octave, weighted by frozen venom.

"Calm down, Mrs. Tiddly. I'm sure we will emerge from this affray unscathed." His knees were wobbly, but Mr. Hector walked to the closet with his head high. He reached up to pull the chain on the interior light, then sidled in beside her. "What is this about?"

"No questions, no answers. It's in your best interest to stay quiet in there. People will show up eventually to let you out." Mr. Poe shut the door. Slight banging, scraping sounds followed. "You've got a nice place, here," he called from the other side of the door. "Good luck."

Mr. Hector stared at the door, picturing in his mind the probable chair wedged under the door knob. 

"We could wait a few minutes, then throw ourselves at the door," Mrs. Tiddly said. Her hands fell to her sides, but her fingers were still clenched. "You were very brave, Mr. Hector."

"Brave?" He'd done nothing. Nothing at all. He was failing his charge, his mission, his duty. Pirates were at the helm of his ship. Mr. Hector rubbed away condensation from his forehead, probably a physical response to the closeness of the overhead light. A pleasant fruity scent -- lemon cleaner? -- began to be quite noticeable. 

"Very brave. You're a fine figure of a man, Mr. Hector. We should turn out that light while we wait. It's getting rather warm in here." Mrs. Tiddly said. "And I'm sure we'll be more comfortable if we sit on the floor."

He did find the absence of light to be soothing, although sitting down was a clumsy, crowded maneuver. There seemed to be more than the correct number of elbows and legs involved in the process. "Turn a bit so your back isn't against the shelving, Mrs. Tiddly, and I'll . . . oh, excuse me . . ." Mr. Hector jerked his hand away from a soft, boneless portion of Mrs. Tiddly's anatomy. "Most dreadfully sorry."

"Not at all. Think nothing of it."

"Errrppp!" A hand, and not his hand, touched the top of his thigh, then settled. "Mrs. Tiddly, you seem to be touching my . . ."

"A fine figure of a man," Mrs. Tiddly squeaked into his ear. "I have full confidence in your ability to engineer our escape from this closet. But while we're waiting, may I say how much I appreciate your firm, commanding leadership."

The number of fingers in the closet had just increased geometrically, based on the number of people with hands. Mr. Hector fought a brief, losing battle for access to his briefs. It occurred to him, during several seconds of rational contemplation prior to full mental paralysis, that what Mrs. Tiddly had been doing with her eyelashes earlier in the day might be vulgarly characterized as flirting.

"You're so tense, Mr. Hector, always so focused on your duty. Close your eyes and relax. Think of snowflakes and moonbeams and whiskers on kittens . . ."

In the dark, in the closet, there was no one except Mrs. Tiddly to hear him whimper.

  
**VICTORIA: THE 'TO DO' LIST LENGTHENS**

The thug's hands on her body were thorough and professional. Victoria had been groped many times under similar circumstances over the years. It said something for James' men that the exploration of private areas was swift and impersonal.

The Russian guards' guns had been taken. Shoes, belts, purses, Ivan's ankle gun, and the men's suit coats had been removed. They stood now with hands secured behind their backs with plastic zip cuffs. James had sorted them into a single file line, beginning with Regina and ending with Aleksandra.

"Each of you will keep two yards between yourself and the person ahead of you, except for Miss Hero, who will lead the line. Miss Hero, you will maintain a constant 10 feet behind my associate. Begin walking now."

Victoria was proud to see Regina promptly follow instructions, although the set of her goddaughter's jaw did not promise indefinite self-control. They followed hallways until they came to the emergency exit stairway, then took the stairs downward to basement level. Victoria applied steady tension against the plastic strips on her wrists. There was no discernible give to the plastic, and the restraints bit sharply into her flesh. Ahead of her in the line, she could see Ivan's wrists were already turning red and white around his restraints. 

The basement appeared to be empty of staff. Victoria reviewed her memory of the blueprints Piotr had given them: laundry room to the left, heating plant to the right. The rest of the basement was given over to storage or unused rooms that had once housed staff in the James Hilton's heyday. The thug at the head of the procession led them down the dimly lit central hallway.

"Inside. Against the far wall."

Their destination was a small, empty room. Scuff marks on ancient linoleum suggested it had probably been staff living quarters in the far past. There would have been room for a twin bed, a narrow chest of drawers, perhaps a ladder back chair. Empty, there was just room enough for them to line up, side by side, against the wall opposite the door. It was an uncomfortably suggestive formation -- police line-up or firing squad came to mind.

"Thank you all for cooperating." James stepped over the threshhold and stood next to the thug with the AK47. He held a small caliber hand gun casually. 

It was a strange choice of weapon for him to carry. A civilian's weapon. The other weapons Victoria had seen his men using were all standard, utilitarian, expected. But Piotr and Ivan had agreed. James would be unlikely to kill them outright. Victoria had trusted them, had fought her natural inclination to act rather than submit. Now she found herself questioning some of their key assumptions.

"After I shut this door, an explosive device will be attached to the outside. If you attempt to force the door -- the only possible ingress or egress to this room, which is constructed of cement block on all sides -- the shape of the room will funnel enough shrapnel into the space to turn you all to sticky confetti." James' voice sounded almost bored. "However, if you are patient, it's possible that when the police come to investigate events they will be able to disarm the device without loss of life. I recommend patience."

"Where are you taking Miss Petrova?"

"Ambassador Simanov. Step away from the wall. The rest of you remain perfectly still, or my companion will begin shooting the women."

The hair along Victoria's forearms prickled. As Ivan stepped into the center of the room, she was peripherally conscious of Natasha's body stiffening, her slight shift of weight forward, actions that mirrored Victoria's own reactions. Surely the bastard wasn't going to take Ivan as well as Aleksandra.

"My employer is Thierry Maimonides. I was given a message for you, Ambassador Simanov." James raised his gun. "He instructed me to tell you that Miss Petrova will be his guest for a while. He instructed me to remind you that you were told to step aside in Moscow. You should have done as you were told."

The percussive coughs following two quick shots reverberated in the confines of the small room. Ivan wavered, then sank to his knees. James took a step back through the doorway. His associate followed, apparently unconcerned that Victoria and Natasha had abandoned their positions against the wall.

"Two-thirds of a Mozambique Drill. You are spared the certainty of the final shot, Simanov, because it is Maimonides' wish that you not die immediately."

The door shut. James was gone.

Time seemed to pause, mutter something profane, then hang out an _emergency exit_ sign. 

"Hands. Fuck. Regina, I need you." Victoria slid her bound hands down over her ass, trying to collapse her shoulder blades together. On the floor next to her, Natasha was completing the same maneuver. Over her ass, along the backs of her thighs, hunched into a further straining, painful effort when hands locked behind knees and it was necessary to straighten the legs and bend at the waist until her nose touched between her knees, push past calves, ankles . . . 

They came up at almost the same moment, bound hands now located in front rather than behind them.

"Thank god for yoga." Things in her back and arms hurt, but Victoria ignored them. Regina stood over Ivan, an expression of bleak horror on her face.

"Uncle Bear. This wasn't part of Piotr's scenario . . ."

"Small caliber, my dear. Could be worse," Maynard said. "But you'll want to slow the bleeding."

"It is worse. There's a bomb outside that door." Tony nudged against Regina's arm.

"Was a 35 percent possibility he would kill me outright." Ivan's voice lacked volume, but not coherence. "Maimonides is thorough nut job, and I should have cleaned house after the Moscow confrontation."

"Don't hover over him, Regina. We will need room." Natasha exchanged rapid dialogue in Russian with Ilya and Serge. "Yes, I know. Hands are needed. Victoria."

"Hurry." She raised her wrists above her head. "Either side, along the edge of the cup."

Natasha pulled Victoria's blouse away from the waistband of her skirt, then fumbled below her armpit. "Hold still. There, I have it." The strip of metal masquerading as underwire slipped out of its fabric track.

"What are you doing?" Regina's eyes were wet, but her voice was more interested than distressed.

"There are ways to get out of plastic zip cuffs. One of which is to feed a small, rigid object into the ziplock and jam the tractor component open," Natasha said. "Like this." She wiggled the tapered end of the underwire into the ziplock on Victoria's cuffs, then pushed and pulled gently against the plastic. One of Victoria's hands slipped from a widening loop. 

"I do love you, Aunt Vee. Who else would have underwear that can be used as a weapon."

"More common than you may think," Maynard murmured. "You must spend some time with Rose."

"Quickly." 

Victoria found Natasha's restrained hands at eye level in front of her face. _A long ago rooftop: hot tar, dust, and the scent of her own sweat filling her lungs. Her chest and arm throbbing from the kick of a malfunctioning Russian rifle. On the pavement below, Natasha kneeling beside Ivan, hands covered with blood._ It took her only a second to jam Natasha's cuffs. 

Natasha pulled gently, steadily, and one hand slipped from a widening loop of restraint. "Serge and Ilya have emergency medical training."

Which made them her next priorities. Victoria released Serge, then Ilya. "Is Ivan still conscious?"

"James is a very great fool," Ivan said, in a thready whisper. "Of course I am conscious."

"And bleeding too much," Natasha said. "How many times must I do this?"

Ivan's words brought a jolt of relief, anger, and steely determination that rushed through Victoria's body with the speed of a bullet train. She was going to find James, find Thierry Maimonides and shoot them both. And she would not make the mistake they had made. Each would receive a single shot, and it would be instantly fatal.

"We need to get him flat. Victoria, his cuffs." Serge had ripped open Ivan's shirt, had removed his own shirt and was holding the wadded cloth against the wounds.

Ivan's wrists were terribly swollen. Victoria worked on the ziplock, adding James' thugs to her "to do" list. "Ilya, help me. Pull now."

Ivan's cuffs loosened. He exhaled sharply as Serge gently repositioned his body until he lay flat on his back. "I can tell you wish to comment more extensively on our situation, my love, but it is as Piotr and I predicted: he did not kill us outright."

"Oh shut up." 

Ivan's face was nearly bloodless, his eyes open the merest sliver as Serge tried to slow the bleeding from his wounds. When Victoria tried to take his pulse, she found her fingers were shaking. She stared at the offending digits in disbelief. 

"With much respect, please allow me to have your place, Mama Bear." Ilya's hands touched her shoulders tentatively. "You can stay close."

"Victoria. Let them care for him. The others must be released, and we have to find a way to get out of this room." Natasha took the metal strip and began to work on Regina's cuffs.

"The bastard left a bomb." Regina looked and sounded incandescently angry. "Cowardly piece of shit. I'm going to cut his balls off."

"Think you may have to stand in line for that, my dear." Maynard was looking at the ceiling with an appraising eye. "It's not concrete, but it's probably solid wood. Building standards were higher in the past."

"Rose will be along. And that Mr. Carden," Tony said, using his newly freed arms to pull Regina into a brief hug.

"Carden . . . will come." Ivan coughed, a gurgling wet sound. "I have been shot before, _milaya moya._ "

"You were much younger, the last time you were shot." Natasha's eyes had the internal fire of fine smoky quartz viewed by firelight. "It is very unfortunate, Vanya. You will miss out on killing the goatfucker Maimonides."

"If you make him laugh, it will be very bad." Serge frowned at Natasha. "I would like to move him against the wall, just in case . . ."

"No." Victoria stood in front of the door, hands on her hips. "You heard what James said. Nowhere in this room is safe. We must trust that Mr. Carden and Rose will deal with the bomb."

  
**CARDEN: MR. HECTOR, I PRESUME**

From previous explorations, Carden knew the main service door at the rear of the Hotel James Hilton opened to a small freight receiving and work area, situated near meat lockers adjacent to the kitchen. When he tried the knob he found, without surprise, that it was locked.

"Allow me." Rose spent a moment rummaging in her purse, then stepped to the door. Thirty seconds later the door opened. "Here we are."

The maneuver was very well done, Carden thought, watching her replace the picks into what looked like a fancy eyeshadow case. He doubted if he could have done it as quickly. "You should find a place to hide with the boy, close to an exit."

Rose shook her head. "No. Mr. Maynard will be expecting us. Angel understands how to be as quiet as a field mouse after a bit of cheese."

"I do, mummy."

Carden found himself staring into the boy's face. He shivered. A kid that young shouldn't have had the depth of interest and awareness he found in those bright blue eyes. "Then stay behind me, and stay quiet."

It was eerily quiet as they made their way through the kitchen area. All the appliances were shut off, but a floured workbench held a large mound of abandoned dough, evidence someone had been encouraged to quit work early. The buffet room, empty of people yet still full of food and dishes, looked like the set for a Stephen King movie moment.

Rose led Angel to the buffet and began to butter a slice of bread. She pointed through the larger doorway in the direction of the lobby, handed the bread to Angel, then extracted the Free Gun from her purse and wedged it under the waistband of her skirt.

Carden nodded. He approached the doorway obliquely, peered carefully around the door jamb. He could see down the empty hallway to the empty lobby, to the front door. To the left the hallway continued past the blank wall adjacent to the banquet room and kitchen, and several office doors just before a right angle turn.

A distant buzzing phone cut off abruptly. Someone was still stationed at the front desk, and Carden doubted it was regular hotel personnel. He motioned to Rose, waited until she stood next to him.

"Man at the front desk," he said quietly. "They probably took our people into the basement. That's where they've been working, where they have access to the museum."

_Our people._ Carden felt the strangeness of his words, of his identification with people who had not existed for him five hours in the past. Rose nodded slightly to the left away from the lobby and moved past him, Angel's hand grasped firmly. Carden waited. Just before the turn Rose paused, cocked her head to one side in an attitude of intense listening, then tried the handle on an office door. It opened.

Rose froze there for a moment, then stepped inside keeping Angel slightly behind her. Almost a minute passed before she stuck out her hand and waved.

Even before Carden quietly closed the office door behind him he understood why Rose was standing in the middle of the room, holding her hands over Angel's ears.

"yesyesyesthereHeckyyes . . ." A torturously high woman's voice squealed obvious approval. 

A man's voice responded, a voice with a slight English accent, rather slurred: "'nce more into the breach . . . godohgodohgod . . ."

Thumping and bumping sounds followed behind the closet door, which was secured by the tried and true method of wedging a sturdy institutional metal chair beneath the doorknob. Carden grinned, imagining the scene behind the door. "Mr. Hector, I presume," he said in a low voice.

"And Mrs. Tiddly from housekeeping," Rose whispered. "I doubt if his weight is correct, but it rathers sounds as if hers is."

Whatever that meant. "Leave them, or take them with us?" As soon as he asked the question, Carden wondered if he was showing the first signs of Alzheimer's. Or something worse. He was changing, becoming some new version of Frank Carden. He would have said this was impossible. Yet here he was, on an op, woman and child in tow, contemplating the welfare of civilians for reasons that had nothing to do with the success of his contract.

"Bad boy! Bad bad boy . . ."

Rose smiled tolerantly and uncovered Angel's ears. "They're safer here. And happier. I'll return after everything is sorted out and release them before the American police arrive."

Yes. There would, inevitably, be police in Hotel James Hilton's future. 

Carden cracked the door to the corridor and checked for stragglers. "Clear." He let Rose take Angel ahead of him, down the short leg of the corridor, around the L-turn. On the fire stairs to the basement Carden took the lead. Rose and Angel moved as quietly as he did, immediately responsive to his gesture to halt before he eased open the door at basement level. It opened silently, testimony to good reconnaissance and planning. A little WD40 applied to many of the hotel's secondary doors had seemed a sensible precaution.

The merest whispered vibration on the air froze Carden where he stood. The inch-wide view into the basement was empty of life. But someone, somewhere had spoken. Or was speaking. He let the door ease shut.

"I think they're holding people down here. Ivan's strategist predicted they would take Miss Petrova to the museum through their excavation point under the street. Either they're still on the move, or that was our people I just heard. I'm going in. The laundry is to the right. There will be places to hide by the work tables and carts."

"I'll hide Angel in a cart, and join you," Rose said firmly. "I do know what I'm doing, Mr. Carden."

It wasn't worth the pretense of a protest. Carden opened his mouth to agree. The echoing snap of two muffled gunshots forestalled him.

  
**P.D. JAMES: POSITIVE INCIDENT PROGRESS NOTED**

It was a small bomb; simple in design, effective if detonated, relatively easy to disarm. In P.D. James' experience it was usually a good idea to leave local constabulary something to puzzle over, but not such a good idea to put them in serious jeopardy. Americans reacted poorly to the loss of law enforcement personnel, and with today's electronic data networks . . . well, it was only good business planning to minimize one's chances of inclusion on any datafile titled "Cop Killer."

P.D. James watched Mr. Poe attach his creation (built from materials mostly provided by the Hotel James Hilton) to the door, pleased he was working down his checklist in good order. Access to the museum: check. Miss Petrova, secured: check. Simanov injured but alive -- for a while: check. Now all he had to do was package up a few things in the museum then transport the merchandise to a location provided by Maimonides, where completion of his contract could be quickly accomplished. Shoot Miss Petrova. Receive the remainder of his fee. Shoot his assistants. Return to the calm semi-tropical backwater where he lived a luxuriously simple life between Incidents.

"Jake says it's all quiet at the front desk. But I can't raise Art." Mr. Rohmer shook the walkie talkie and squinted at it, implying he thought this deficiency might be attributed to tech equipment. "No answer, boss. He should have been here by now."

There were any number of reasons Mr. Machen might be delayed, including careful disposal of three bodies. There were any number of reasons Mr. Machen wasn't answering his walkie talkie, including carelessness or mental defect. 

"He knows the itinerary. If we're ready, please lead the way with Miss Petrova." James cast one backward glance at the bomb as they headed toward the access they'd created underneath the street. Perhaps he wouldn't shoot Mr. Poe. The man had a rudimentary competence and improvisational skills, rare qualities in a distressingly limited pool of suitable henchmen. 

A consultation of his watch showed it was 9:15 p.m. Exactly within Incident parameters. It would take another fifteen minutes to get into position in the museum basement. Fifteen minutes for Willy Grimm to take control of the museum security systems. By 10:05 his people would have neutralized the guards and begun the process of systematically looting the Russian wing. 

Jake Grimm had instruction to leave his watcher's post at the hotel reception desk at 10:20, proceed to the parking garage and bring one of the vehicles back to the museum loading dock. Mr. Machen and Mr. Rohmer had been tasked with leaving the museum at 10:20 and returning with the other two vehicles. Now it appeared that one of the brothers Karamazov might have to take Mr. Machen's place as a driver. 

A small imperfection in his Incident could be mended. If Mr. Machen's assignments had evaded termination, and were still active within Incident parameters, his team needed to work through the Incident checklist with extra speed and vigilance. But statistically it was unlikely Mr. Machen had found himself challenged by an old man, young woman and child.

"Please call Mr. Grimm and alert him as to Mr. Machen's silence. When we're out of the basement, keep trying to contact Mr. Machen."

"Will do, boss." Mr. Rohmer saluted. The gesture caused the walkie talkie to jump from his hand. It hit the floor with suggestive cracking sound.

"Crap. Sorry, boss. There's more walkie talkies at the command center."

"Indeed," James said flatly. "Very sorry, I'm sure. Please recover the broken device and keep walking."

  
**CARDEN: NOT GETTING PAID ENOUGH**

The only thing more effective than a neon sign with the legend _Hostages Held Here_ was a big ass IED parked in front of a door.

"I'm not getting paid enough for this shit." Carden evaluated the device from a distance of several feet, then advanced slowly. Someone had clearly enjoyed showing off their improvisational skills. A gentle cough alerted him that Rose had already hidden her child, and was coming down the hallway behind him.

"Bomb," Rose said. "If that door opens from the inside – boom."

"Thank you for pointing that out." 

She gave him a look. "I believe we can lessen the likelihood of an explosion. Observe: the metal shelving brace duct-taped to the door, with a zip tie positioned to pull the trigger on that grenade if the door opens, causing a secondary explosion in the canister . . . which probably contains an unpleasant variety of penetrating metallic bits. The door would deflect or absorb much of the blast, but depending on the depth and shape of the room behind . . ."

"Yeah. Suicide alley. Go back to the laundry." 

"Oh please. I will require your help." Rose took the gun from her waistband and returned it to her purse. A short rummage in the bag of miracles produced a pair of fingernail clippers, which she used to snip the zip tie. "Now, keep it steady for me, Mr. Carden." She began to peel duct-tape from around the brace.

"Just give me a moment to clamp my sphincter shut." Carden held the brace steady, keeping an eye on the grenade trigger. When he felt a slight give in the metal, he pushed the brace back, up and away from the canister, noting his bowels did feel a bit loose.

Rose had no such apparent problem. "Very good. It's clear. Be careful." She removed the brace entirely and lay it next to the wall. "This door won't open all the way, and tipping that device over is contraindicated. Shall we move the table enough to fully open the door?"

" _We_ shall do no such thing. I'll stand right here and wait until someone bigger, stronger and hairier than you can help me with that. And you can save the expression of tolerant pity for someone who notices."

Rose smiled. "I approve of observant men. And a sense of humor is essential in our line of work." She tried the door knob, eased the door open a crack. "Oh my. Ambassador Simanov has been shot."

"Warn them not to rush the door." Carden's fingers curled over the edge of the door as Rose slipped inside. Natasha and one of the guards – Ilya – were already moving quickly toward the opening.

"Send the guard through," Carden called. "Need his help moving a bomb."

Natasha stopped. Just stopped. Once again Carden found himself impressed by the quality of this bunch. Smart, experienced, able to both give and take orders . . . he closed the door behind Ilya and took one side of the table.

"Far enough down the hallway to clear the door."

Ilya studied the canister, nodded. He took hold of the table edge and watched Carden for a signal.

"Six steps, then stop." The device wobbled a bit, but stayed in place. "That should be safe enough for now."

The words had barely left his mouth before Ilya was back at the door, pulling it wide. 

Maynard and Tony were the first to exit, nodding at Carden as they walked swiftly away in the direction of the laundry.

"Help me." Ilya called over his shoulder as he went in the same direction.

Two seconds glance into the room as he passed showed Carden there had been only one casualty. Simanov, on the floor, chest covered with a wet, red stain. Serge maintaining pressure over a wound. No, there would be two wounds. Carden remembered the sound of two shots.

James had done it deliberately. On instruction from Maimonides, Carden thought as he helped gather sheets and towels. The presence of the bomb, set to trigger if the door opened, added confirmation to the guess. It was torture, and it was personal. Following Ilya back to the wounded man, Carden wondered if Petrov might be willing to pay for a hit on Maimonides. If not, maybe it was time for him to do a little _pro bono_ work.

Another thought that surprised him.

"I previously downloaded an area map onto Angel's iPad." Rose held the furry toy for Victoria's inspection. "Nearest hospital is here, within a five minute drive – if Tony is behind the wheel." She smiled, proudly. "Our Tony is hell on wheels when needs must."

"Thank you, Rose. Do you or Mr. Carden have a cell phone?"

"Of course." The rasping sound of velcro preceded the appearance of an iPhone from a hidden pocket on the exterior of the furry toy. "They were jamming earlier."

"We heard the reception phone ring as we passed through," Carden said. "If they thought everyone was accounted for and without means of communication, they may have taken their jamming gear with them." He took his own phone from an inside pocket in his jacket and checked for bars. "It's pretty dead down here."

Victoria gave Rose's phone display a quick glance before entering a number. The barest stubs of bars showed. "Come on, come on . . . Frank? Frank! Yes, I know it's bad, I'm in a cellar. I need you and Marvin. Ivan's been shot. Call Piotr. Call William. Frank?" She held the phone at arm's length and glared at the display. "I think he heard me. I'll try again when we get upstairs."

Moses and Boggs? Carden's mental vault of professional trivia automatically offered the surnames suggested by the pairing of Frank and Marvin. Those two maniacs? This woman could summon the legendary Frank Moses and Marvin Boggs with a simple _I need you_? 

Carden put his back against the wall near the door, watching as Serge and Ilya made an improvised stretcher with the ironing board, towels and sheets. He'd seen far, far messier shooting scenes. But here the trio of women standing watch over removal of the wounded man created a tableau of mythical aspect. Three sets of eyes, identical amounts of implacable anger; although there was something about Victoria's face that set her apart from the others. Classic woodcuts came to mind. Medea sans snakes, maybe, or Judith taking Holoferne's head. Female wrath, vengeance and dire purpose turned her into an archetype. An omen. 

Of the three, only the youngest woman exhibited rapid breathing and flared nostrils. Regina's fingers clenched and unclenched as she watched Simanov's now unconscious body being transferred to the stretcher. 

"Aunt Vee." Regina's voice wobbled a bit.

"You may ride with us, Regina." Victoria's voice was quiet, without apparent emotion. "Natasha, I'll keep you updated as quickly as I am able. I'll call Mr. Carden's phone. Number, please."

Carden took Rose's phone and entered his number for speed dial.

Natasha met Carden's eyes as Simanov was lifted. "Mr. Carden. You will be with me." 

"Yeah." Siberian ice there. Violent intention as deep as permafrost. A lot more than completion of his contract was going to go down. Following the procession to the stairway, Carden found his eyes dwelling on the taut, graceful line of Natasha's neck and spine, felt his pulse accelerate -- just a bit. It came to him suddenly, as Natasha's fingers closed over the door handle on the fire stairs, that none of the women wore rings.

  
**VICTORIA: HEAVY WEATHER**

They were really very competent young men, although she wouldn't expect Natasha to work with anyone of smaller caliber. Victoria took point up the stairs, her bare feet distantly reporting the gritty feel of textured rubber treads that lined the concrete steps. Ilya and Serge were amazingly quiet as they followed with Ivan and the stretcher. Ilya spoke once before they reached the first landing.

"He is going in and out of consciousness."

That was to be expected, Victoria told herself. She consulted the iPhone as they paused on the final landing near the exit door. It had been eight minutes since Maynard and Tony's departure for the parking garage. Quick inspection before she eased the door open revealed a wire bracketing the top of the door frame, cut at one corner. The exit alarm had been decommissioned.

Carden or Maynard? Unexpected allies, both impressively competent. With a glance back at the Russians, Victoria eased the exit door open and took a quick look in both directions outside. The overhead street lights were designed to keep the rear of the hotel and alleyway clearly visible after dark. 

"There's no one about, but when we exit into the alley we will be exposed." They lowered Ivan to the floor, Serge fussing over the improvised dressing. Victoria tore her eyes away from the rise and fall of Ivan's stained shirt. For a moment a sense of violation and rage crested like a tsunuami, nearly drowning her discipline, leaving mindless berserker fury in the backwash. She regrouped, knelt, carried his left palm to her lips. 

"Ivan. Love."

His fingers moved against her mouth. "Must be . . . my age. Wounds are not that bad."

"You're in shock, and of course it's your age. Two-thirds of a Mozambique Drill my arse. We shall see how the fookers like being on the receiving end of an MI6-style Candy-gram." Victoria released Ivan's hand and kissed his cheek. She stood, taking a moment to methodically relax her body. Her own shock and tension were enemies that had to be dug out and eliminated. "I'm going to try for a better signal."

Ilya moved into her place at the exit as Victoria took two steps into the blacktopped alleyway. Her bars improved dramatically. She hit redial.

"Victoria." Frank's voice, flat and professional. "He's alive? How much do we need to bring, and what is the time frame?"

"Who?" Marvin's voice, venomous and intense. "Piotr sent us your location. Are you –"

"Thierry Maimonides, by way of contractor P.D. James. Ivan has been shot twice, high right shoulder. Aleksandra Petrova has been taken. We should be enroute to hospital in a minute." Unexpectedly her solar plexus contracted, an invisible hit. A small gasp of air escaped her. 

"Victoria?"

"Let Marvin bring whatever he can lay his hands on in the next half hour. Make travel arrangements, but don't head out until I get confirmation of a location from Piotr. I'll call after Ivan is cared for."

"We'll be ready." In unison; then Frank again: "Cooper is waiting for your call."

The sound of a vehicle moving too fast for alley access driving was followed by the rake of headlights across the back of the hotel, then the vehicle itself. Victoria flattened herself against the building as a scuffed black panel van slid to a stop in front of the exit. Maynard was out of the passenger door almost before the wheels stopped shuddering.

"Plenty of room in back to lay him flat." Maynard opened the rear doors, then stood away as Ilya and Serge moved Ivan into the vehicle. "Shall I return to the others?"

Victoria wedged into the back of the van next to Ilya and Ivan, finding a seat on a toolbox as Serge crouched behind the front seats. "No. Stay with us. The rest should already be on the move toward a safe place. I want to minimize any risk someone will bump into the last of James' men leaving the hotel. Does Tony know the route to –"

"Rose showed me the map. I will navigate," Maynard said. "Let me have Rose's phone. I can monitor for incoming communications."

"In a moment." Victoria punched another number from memory. 

"Victoria." Cooper answered immediately. "What do you need?"

"Nothing official, William. At least – we have heavy weather." Below her, laying still on the truck's floor, Ivan seemed barely to be breathing. 

Ilya met her eyes calmly. "He is stable."

"I can put on a poncho and hip boots, Victoria. As a private citizen, not director of the CIA." 

Another small contraction in her chest. "Thank you. We're on our way to hospital. I'll check in when he is under care. There will be questions."

"What facility are you headed for? I can activate a DRT."

"A Discreet Response Team would be a great help. I will not have time to be detained by local police." Victoria gave him the hospital's name and street address. "I hope to spend minimal time at that address."

"Understood."

"I will need Piotr."

"You will have him."

Victoria slid off the tool box, wedging herself next to Ivan's body. In the dim light coming from the van's dashboard, his face looked like carved stone. "Ivan. I flatly refuse to lose you again."

"We will not lose him." Ilya reached across Ivan's chest and touched her hand.

"May I have the phone now?" Maynard asked politely.

"Yes. Sorry." Victoria passed the phone to Serge, who handed it to Maynard.

"No apologies necessary." A swift flick of forefinger, and Maynard scrolled through the phone's menu options. "They're leaving the hotel. I have an address from Regina, with the message she's also sent the address to Piotr. She will be sending specific directions and a GPS coordinate shortly."

"Well done." Timing would be critical, but they would get to Aleksandra before James could finish his contract, of that Victoria had no doubt. She clutched for a handhold as the van took a ninety degree turn without slowing. "Tony!"

"Emergency facility in sight. We're there."


	5. Chapter 5

_If you go to war pray once._  
_If you go on a sea journey, pray twice._  
_But pray three times if you wish to marry._  
_\- Russian proverb_  


**CARDEN: NORMAL AND HEALTHY**

St. Francis Animal Hospital and Rescue nestled into a relatively isolated suburban clump of acreage with mixed conifers and hardwoods creating a noise barrier between cranky human neighbors and the occasionally noisy canine patient or boarder. Sturdy wire fencing defined exercise runs and yards outside a low, modular office building. Behind the office building stood a good sized pole building with a surrounding concrete yard. 

"Mr. Carden – Frank. Coffee?" Regina's question was accompanied by a rich odor of fresh brew.

"Bless you." Carden opened his eyes and took the styrofoam cup. A quick check of his watch told him he had been drowsing for nearly an hour, no small testament to his ability to ignore discomfort. He unfolded himself from the collapsible lawn chair, stretched, then took several swallows of coffee. The caffeine hit his stomach hard, reminding him there had been no chance for dinner.

"Victoria rang. They should be here soon." Natasha occupied another chair situated in front of the metal supply lockers that faced the set of double entrance doors. She held a Sig Sauer in the hand that rested casually above her knee. "Ivan is still in surgery, but doing very well. Ilya and Serge have remained behind to watch over him."

"She didn't stay with him." It was a striking thought that Carden didn't mean to voice aloud. Most women who exhibited the degree of attachment he had witnessed between Victoria and Ivan would be camped out with their noses plastered to the waiting room door.

"Surgeons told her Ivan was salvageable. Ilya and Serge are there for security," Natasha said. "Victoria is not a surgeon. Her expertise is needed elsewhere. We are trained to do what we do best, and let others do what they are trained to do best."

Natasha's tone of voice conveyed she was responding to him as an educational moment, and she may have thought he was a bit slow. Carden grinned, hiding his face with the rim of his cup. He finished the coffee, then crossed the open training floor that took up most of the building's floor space to the closet sized toilet enclosure. By the time he emptied his bladder and splashed cool water on his hands, forearms and face, he felt fully functional and alert. When he stepped out of the bathroom, the training floor was no longer empty. Victoria, Maynard and Tony were the center of a group of hugs and questions. 

Carden wondered how the hospital staff had viewed Ivan's retinue: bare feet, lacking jackets, ties or belts.

" . . . shoes and other accessories are over by Mr. Carden, in the pillowcase. Once liberated, our concierge was very helpful." Rose held her husband's hand against her cheek. "Tony drove well?"

"Extremely well. " Victoria's smile was wan, but reflected the real appreciation in her eyes. "Are there more chairs? Tony, if you could give Regina some assistance."

Carden made a move to help, but Victoria held up her hand. "Thank you for your timely appearance in the basement, Mr. Carden. I owe you a great debt."

"Rose and Angel were important parts of that strategy. As for any debt -- I have a contract, and I figure we're all headed in the same direction. You let me take James at the end, and we'll be even."

"Indeed." Victoria looked at him, really looked at him with an intensity that would have made an electron microscope seem unfocused. "May I have my shoes?"

"Certainly." Carden dumped out the remaining contents of the bag. Victoria found her shoes, her phone, Ivan's phone, and her suit jacket. She collected Ivan's suit jacket, tie and belt and passed them to Regina. After Maynard and Tony were through picking over the lot, all that remained was three pairs of shoes and two belts.

"Time is not our friend. Others will be joining us?"

"Yes, Mr. Carden. Others will be here soon."

"Timeframe?" Natasha asked.

"William and Piotr should be here any minute. Frank and Marvin aren't coming by CIA taxi service, so it will take them a bit longer. They're bringing our transport as well."

"I suppose William offered chopper evac, and Marvin refused to consider it?"

Natasha's question sent an electric thrill of warning through Carden's bones. Last intel he'd heard about Moses and Boggs indicated they had been retired with prejudice from official government service, and were hotdogging the occasional job in odd parts of the globe. If they were still working for the Company, he would be better off proceeding with his contract as a solo. Where was the truth of the situation? 

"Piotr is your tech? Who is William?" And why does he have CIA choppers at his disposal, Carden worried.

"Piotr is our tech. He is a member of Ambassador Simanov's staff," Victoria said. "William Cooper is a family friend, and will be joining us in that capacity. He's also . . . "

William Cooper. Bells, whistles and air raid sirens erupted. "Director of the fucking CIA." Carden shook his head. "Not a good fit for me. Really not a good fit."

"Mr. Carden. For the duration of this operation, if you are working for me, William will not care if you are Adolf Hitler. Decide quickly."

"If I work for you? I have my own contract." Carden's eyes were caught by the flexing of muscles in Natasha's forearm, a preliminary motion he recognized and understood. He held up his hand. "I'm not saying no, just evaluating the situation."

"Thoughtful evaluation is good thing." Natasha's arm did not relax.

"Yeah." Carden saw a strange expression cross her face as he drawled the word, so fleeting he would have missed it if he hadn't been staring at her. The idea they were still seeing that other guy when they looked at him rankled some. If he got out of this job free and clear, he was going to dig the dirt on his double.

"Chairs here." Regina and Tony were back, each carrying a load of folding chairs.

Carden moved to help them set up a circle on the training floor, relocated his own chair into the formation, then sat waiting as the others gradually took seats. Victoria continued to pace, eyes flicking between the people in the room and Rose's iPhone. She stopped abruptly, lifted the phone to her ear.

"Yes. He was in surgery. I left Ilya and Serge at hospital and called Dr. Ekaterina. When? Where?" Victoria listened intently, but never lost track of her immediate environment. She met Carden's eyes across the space that separated them and nodded. She knew he'd made his decision about the job. "We're waiting for you."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

William Cooper was disturbingly unlike anything Carden expected of the current director of the CIA.

"Victoria. Sitrep." The darkly handsome, unshaven man gave Victoria a simple head nod in greeting, swept a comprehensive glance around at the inhabitants and interior of the structure, then seated himself in one of the chairs. 

Wire and steel, Carden thought, assessing the man's body. He'd be tough in a physical confrontation. The slight, blond man who hovered behind him reminded Carden of his cousin Delia's collectible _Teen_ magazine collection: David McCallum as the Russian heart-throb from the Man From U.N.C.L.E. progam in the 60s. 

"Thank you for coming, William." Victoria took up a position on the floor's center. "Introductions." She went around the circle, deviating to note the child Angel's presence. "Frank and Marvin will arrive at the local airport in about 15 minutes, which puts them here with us in about 30 minutes. Piotr – basic tools, please. Tony, would you help Piotr carry in his gear?"

Carden was used to standing where Victoria stood; used to directing the production. He resumed his seat in the vastly uncomfortable lawn chair and watched developments with interest. 

His own experience with team members waiting on a go signal was that most exhibited one of three sets of behaviors. 

Twitchy and aggressive was Carden's least favorite, although some of the men he'd worked with would exchange twitchy for focused intensity on the job. 

Some found a quiet, meditative place where they waited patiently as if in suspended animation, ignoring barbs and pokes from their twitchy team mates. Carden had seen a number of these men also do about faces in the field, revealing rabidly brutal, difficult to control behaviors.

By far the most stable, effective and predictable men (it came to Carden suddenly that he'd only recruited two women in his entire private career, and they hadn't been so much part of a team as elements of scenarios) were the ones who did crossword puzzles, watched television, read or napped.

In the end it came down to knowing your people, knowing their behaviors as well as their skills. When the unexpected happened, a successful job was still possible if you knew your people. 

For the first time since his legitimate days of service, Carden was going to work with people he didn't know, hadn't chosen, and the anal analyst inside him that preferred meticulous pre-planning was scrambling to get a handle on the situation, on the players.

To all appearances, Cooper napped, head tilting forward toward his chest, which rose and fell at a slowly decreasing rate. Maynard, Rose, Tony and Regina sat together near Angel's cot, all at ease and speaking quietly. Natasha – Carden's eyes passed over her in a natural, casual glance to find her own eyes dissecting him. He grinned and nodded, and let his eyes drift on to Victoria's pacing and flicker of Piotr's monitors coming online. 

Carden relaxed and shut his eyes. In spite of Cooper's presence, both his head and gut were telling him It was a good team. A really good team who would make it possible for him to execute his contract and bring a payday that, with creative management, would set him up for years. Hell, at his age, maybe the rest of his life. The housing market was in the dumper right now. He could find a small home with land for a garden, somewhere near a river with good fishing, and state forestland for hunting. He could buy a 4WD pickup, used with low miles, and leave his current POS abandoned in the city.

He'd had these fantasies before, and ended up fading into big city life while he waited for another job. Waited for another target.

A flash of memory, of watching children on a playground was replaced by Angel and Rose playing _one, two, tie your shoe._ Carden didn't understand these people, and this made them a higher priority to watch -- even than Cooper. An assassin and a thief, apparently unconcerned about the deadfalls between them and the goal of raising a normal, healthy child . . . 

But he wasn't going to waste time contemplating other people's lifestyle choices. As Carden let his mind go still, watching the room through sound alone, a single stray observation and question lingered. Irritating in its simplicity, nearly a cliche, yet weighted with years of practical, sometimes unpleasant experience: there was normal and healthy for American Methodists, and normal and healthy for Gogoland cannibals. Those two samples were taken from opposite ends near the middle two-thirds of the "normal" curve. Impossible to tell which side of that select area these people would come down on . . . although Carden doubted if there were any Methodists in the group.

  
**P.D. JAMES: A RESUME BY ANY OTHER NAME**

Riding shotgun. James liked the history of the phrase. 

Plus forty minutes from leaving the museum, in the lead vehicle of a three-Denali convoy, James rode shotgun with a hand gun and laptop while Willy Grimm drove toward their rendezvous with Maimonides. The rest of his crew was divided between the other vehicles, transporting stolen artwork. Stripped, wrapped in tarps, her mouth duct-taped, Petrova had been secured in the back of James' vehicle. 

There was but a single blot on his Incident ledger thus far: the vanishment of Mr. Machen. James obsessively refreshed between web pages of three area news outlets, and tweets of a local conspiracy theory radio show host who monitored city police activity. No word of the Hotel James Hilton appeared between reports of robbery, homicide and arson. 

It should have been a simple _either/or_ notation on his ledger; lack of news of an explosion indicated that either his collection of guests was still trapped, or someone had disabled the bomb. But Mr. Machen was missing. Either/or could turn into perhaps/possibly, muddying the crystal clear flow of James' Incident stream.

James glanced away from the laptop. "Drop your speed to the posted limit," he said coldly. "It would be unfortunate if we came to the notice of law enforcement personnel."

"Sorry boss." Grimm eased off the gas. "Did you get a chance to read the guest profiles I e-mailed to you?"

"I was hoping for that information _before_ we relocated the guests." Grimm was a competent tech, but too casual about details. Both Grimms were definitely getting shot, James thought as he retrieved files from his gmail account. 

It didn't take long to read the profiles. Simanov and Winslow had been scrutinized pre-Incident. James had judged them to be potentially dangerous and unpredictable. In this he had been disappointed.

Of the Maynards, Rose had the longest file. Art thief? Reading between myriad, inconclusive statements that ended with "released after being questioned," James felt comfortable with this vocation assignment. 

Rose's husband and adopted son seemed to live off funds from a small inherited estate. Victor Maynard had never held a job, although he traveled a great deal for no apparent purpose. Rose and Victor had adopted Tony as an adult, shortly before the birth of their son Angel. Some kind of menage going on there? There was a larger than average age gap between Maynard and Rose and Tony. No mention of sexual peccadillos or high jinks. 

The grand sum of information Grimm had provided on Tony was his date and place of birth, date of adoption, and record of an official warning for use of a Class B drug.

Taken as a whole, the Maynards seemed to have a slightly odd family dynamic. This was nothing special. In James' opinion all families were odd. 

James moved on to Regina Hero. Eldest daughter of Dulcinea Mountjoy Hero, past Prime Minister of Grand Fenwick, and scientist/inventor Alexander Hero. Veterinarian. Suspected animal rights activist. Dilettante. 

Frank Konrad's file was briefest of all: retired used car salesman, five years widowed, no children or immediate family. 

James paused before moving on to the next file. "Your impression of Konrad, Mr. Grimm. You had the chance to evaluate him in person."

"Notices what's going on around him, but he's a slow thinker and a slow mover. Probably got arthritic knees."

James waited. "That's all?"

"Yes, boss. He's just some old guy who likes museums. I heard him talking to the concierge about the Russian art collection. He sounded --" Grimm wrestled to find the right word, "wistful. You know, like an old lady talking about something she remembers, but it ain't around any longer."

It was an unexpected observation. Whether accurate or not, James would not have thought Grimm could find the word 'wistful' in his vocabulary. He went back to the files. Natasha Miranova was related to Simanov, with credits that included early KGB work. The only minor unease James felt in connection with the present Incident was the relationship between Simanov, Miranova and Vladimir Simanov. That old bastard was still alive, and vindictive as a special circle of hell on a really bad day.

Still. James had circumvented worse threats. They were entering the fourth quarter of the Incident, with only one minor blot. He had no doubt that, not only would he win the game, the opposing team would be benched with extreme prejudice.

_Finally,_ James thought as he closed his laptop. _A sports metaphor that brings a smile._

  
**REGINA: PRACTICING HUMAN**

The dark-haired woman who entered the building with suicidal speed could only be Sarah Ross. From the periphery of her vision, Regina saw several people tense, then relax as it became obvious the newcomer did not pose a threat.

"Oh, Victoria! How is he?"

"Dr. Ekaterina says he is doing well." Not only did Victoria submit to the embrace, she hugged the woman back with visible force. 

Seconds later the appearance of two men Regina had only met one time, years in the past in Grand Fenwick, followed to confirm Sarah's identity. Frank Moses still exuded that tired yet maturely sexy vibe; Marvin Boggs, whose hair had grown to ponytail length, still exuded that insane and weary vibe Regina remembered remarking upon when she was fifteen years of age, and the duo had spent two nights in her parents' dungeon 'catching up on sleep.' The aged hippie-type man who trailed behind to throw what looked like the butt end of a cigarette out the door before ushering in a small black woman, was an unknown.

"Sit. Everyone sit." Victoria released Sarah and faced the gathering. "Sarah Ross. Frank Moses. Marvin Boggs. Philip and Charity McAlpine," she indicated each of the new arrivals before turning her finger on the already seated crew. "Frank Carden, who looks like Joe, get over it. Victor, Rose, Tony and Angel Maynard. Regina Victoria Mountjoy. Natasha Miranova. And everyone in the free world knows William Cooper. Right. Piotr?"

Piotr waved a hand at one of three interactive holographic projections. "Maimonides' compound. Aerial: segue to 360 degree pan, adjacent to infrared interior."

Peripherally Regina was aware of Director Cooper, Rose and Carden leaning forward to study the images. The rest of the group seemed interested, but less intent, if one went by body language alone. She turned her head so she could see Moses and Boggs more clearly, and was startled by a slow wink and nod from Moses. The gesture was an embarrassing reminder that the body language of any one of this group might be an inadequate predictor of interest.

"Motion sensors around the perimeter," Rose said softly. "Many cameras."

To Regina's eyes there was nothing immediately remarkable about the sprawling, single story American ranch-style house.

"Do you have ears and eyes on James' convoy?" Victoria occupied the floor between the semi-circle of chairs and Piotr's tech set-up. She continued to pace, tucking short ends of hair behind her ears when they escaped, eyes a million miles distant as she listened to the stream of information Piotr supplied. 

"I do." A dedicated moment of flying fingers, and Piotr nodded satisfaction. "Observe map. Listen."

_Arrival anticipated at 2400. Entire inventory on board. Rendezvous as per established schedule._

The holographic representation of three dots moving across a blueprint network of highways reminded Regina of a much-loved special effect from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

"This was sent an hour past from a mobile device. I put them approximately another hour away from compound," Piotr said.

"Cowbird doesn't need much runway." McAlpine scuffed his foot against the concrete floor. "FInd me three-quarters mile of blacktop somewhere close. If we haul arse we can get there thirty minutes after they arrive."

"Even better. Director Cooper has provided a legitimate private airport within five miles of target." Piotr's statement was enlarged upon through holographic visual aids. "Just enough runway for Cowbird to land, if you are . . ."

"Skilled?" The drawled response encompassed a world of humor and amusement. "Sure, boychik. I'm skilled."

A ripple of -- something -- passed through the gathering. Regina felt the hair on the back of her neck creep against her skin. It was energy, she thought, rubbing reflexively against her neck. A weird kind of focused energy was coming from the people around her. Energy radiated off Victoria, vibrant and electric, spilling over to crawl on Regina's skin. It worked its way up from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head.

"Maimonides?" Victoria asked flatly.

One of the holographs wavered, and changed. "His jet is on approach to Logan International. He's got a 30 minute drive after he lands, to a reserved chopper, and another three point eight hours in the air to get to the compound."

"Then let's get into the air. Are there suitable vehicles --?"

"They'll be waiting for us." Cooper stood, rolling his shoulders in a stretch. "You can finish the verbal when we're in the air, Nike."

Victoria stilled. Her face changed, softened. "You're a good friend, William. Don't call me that."

"As you wish, Winslow. I am your beloved son." Cooper's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Lead me into the deepest valley."

"And don't quote Sun Tzu at me, you wanker. Now, move."

Everyone around her was immediately in motion. Tony touched Regina's arm, guided her into the queue leaving the vet's building. "Your family is amazing," he confided in a low voice. "I think Victor and Rose are favorably impressed."

"Wait till you meet my mother." Regina bumped in under Tony's arm, needing a moment of physical closeness. "She is to politics as Aunt Vee is to vermin eradication."

Tony gave her a quick, one-armed hug. "I look forward to it."

They found seats in the back of one of three mismatched but obviously newer sport utility vehicles. Angel joined them, perching on Tony's lap and seeming to immediately fall asleep. Carden, Tony and Rose took the middle seat, while Moses got behind the wheel. Boggs was last in, pausing to give the passengers a thorough scrutiny before sliding into front passenger seat. He nodded approving at Angel.

"Smart kid. Always sleep when you can."

"Very wise." Rose lay her head on Maynard's shoulder. "Try to shut your eyes, Tony. Victor will watch for us."

"And Regina as well." Tony yawned, resting his head against Regina's shoulder. "She doesn't need much sleep."

Judging by the speed with which the outside dark was passing, Regina thought it was possible this nap time would last less than the thirty minutes Victoria had said it took to get to the air strip. She relaxed against Tony and focused loosely on the windshield between Moses and Boggs. When this action was over, when the people who hurt Ivan and took Aleksandra were dealt with, then she would fall into bed with Tony and, eventually, catch up on any sleep deficit.

Deep, natural sleep was something Regina valued. It was also something she seemed to need less of than many people she knew. Her father had been that way. Alexander Hero had been able to pursue tantalizing research for 72 hours at a stretch without losing mental and physical acuity. Both father and daughter had shared a love of working during the solitary night hours.

"There's magic in the witching hour, in the ghosting hour," Hero had told his eldest daughter more than once. "Some of my best ideas have materialized just as three bells sounded from the castle clock."

Doing the math in her head, Regina thought it probable tonight's witching hour would see considerable activity.

"Are you worried?" Tony whispered against her neck. "About Ivan? About where we're going?"

"No. Victoria says Uncle Bear is doing well." Regina nuzzled a kiss into his hair. "And I am surrounded by competence."

Tony chuckled sleepily. "I've been reading the classics with Victor. What Cooper called your aunt: Nike. That's the Greek goddess of strength, speed and victory. Victoria. It's an apt code name for a formidable woman."

"Go to sleep."

Tony snuffled a sleepy laugh.

Goddesses and Gods were outside Regina's remit. At one point in her life, she had considered adding wiccan, neopagan, or neodruid to the list of words that described her beliefs and activities. The problems with words used as shorthand for complex philosophies, she had decided, was that they were inevitably square pegs trying to fuck round holes. To be a Practicing Human seemed comprehensive, and an adequate label. But, somehow, a classic identification suited Aunt Vee perfectly.

Nike.

Victory.

Victoria.

Not so much a code name as an implacable reality.

"If you know the enemy and know yourself, your victory will not stand in doubt."

Regina touched Tony's thigh, Angel's shinbone, and smiled at the dark windshield past Rose and Victor, between Moses and Bogg's heads. William Cooper wasn't the only one who could quote Sun Tzu.

  
**VICTORIA: AS TIME GOES BY**

_Retired._

Victoria had frequently heard the word dropped into conversations during the last ten years. Usually in hushed, jovial, well-met-fellow tones from Them Upstairs. Usually with the implication that to be retired was somehow at once to be envied, and also worthy of offerings of sympathy.

She hadn't devoted much interest or thought to this behavioral quirk until the first time the word had been coupled with her name. Later, with Ivan's. When the word crossed her threshold of awareness, and she realized youngsters were applying it to other men and women with whom she had passing acquaintance over the course of a long and -- _what was that word the Chinese curse chose to make a point? Interesting._ \-- interesting career, Victoria made a mental note.

Sitting in the passenger seat next to William Cooper, Victoria contemplated the implications of the label. It was as misleading a bit of nomenclature as any targeted bit of propaganda she'd ever encountered. Intelligence operatives who left the field for a desk, then for a condo with membership in a golf club, could retire. These were people who had experienced "the field" for only a short time. Analysts. Paper pushing scholars. Politicians.

Assassins for whom "the field" was assigned living quarters, who blew raspberries at their former colleagues and cut off all communication with their handlers when subtle (lethal) hints indicated their services were no longer required and their rent would no longer be paid, were not retired. They were . . .

"You okay?" 

Victoria turned her snort into a polite, throat-clearing noise. She patted Cooper's hand. "I'm fine, William. I called the hospital just before we went dark. Ekaterina said Ivan is out of recovery, doing well."

"He's a tough old bugger." Cooper's beautiful dark eyes slid her a sideways, gleaming expression of amusement. "You know they're going to give you a review on this soiree."

"Our financial benefactors? _They_ will do well to remember rule 2." And many other rules as well, Victoria added silently, to herself. Piotr had assembled comprehensive dossiers on those people who had made Eagle's Nest possible.

"It's not what you know. It's not who you know. It's what you know about who you know." Cooper grinned, glancing down at the speedometer. He eased slightly off the gas pedal. "They've spent a lot of money on Eagle's Nest, with the notion that someday you'd contribute to the common defense."

"Clever lads and lasses. It was the right thing to do, at the right time." Victoria turned her head slightly, and found Charity McAlpine's eyes alive and alert in the seat behind the driver's seat. "Bring me up to speed, William. What's the current definition of _the common defense._ "

Cooper didn't bite on that one. After a moment Victoria chose to let her hook drift downstream. "How are the McAlpine grandchildren, Charity?"

"Growing like weed." Charity's rich, contralto-range voice was full of pride and humor. "All e-babies, every one. It's the new frontier."

"It's the old frontier, with new interior decorators. Wi-fi and horticulture. High tech and low tech. If any of your overachieving grand-babies are interested in employment, have them send a resume to Eagle's Nest. We put the emphasis on _opportunity_ and education when we recruit." Victoria laughed. Her spine melted into the car seat. Even with the constant, quiet knowledge that Ivan was not yet completely out of danger, she was surrounded and supported by what Milla would call "her peeps." Regina. Frank, Marvin and Sarah. William. Natasha and Piotr. Philip and Charity. And new potential additions to her family, Regina's beau and his parents. 

Formidable, all.

Victoria turned the rear-view mirror a bit so she could stare at McAlpine. "Were the wee buggers born with the ability to keyboard with only their thumbs, grandfather? Bright hope for the future of communication?"

"You're such a cynic. The world, she is a changing." McAlpine stroked the corner of his handlebar mustache and winked at her reflection in the mirror. "When are you and Ivan coming to visit the ranch? We've got a new combination hot tub and endless pool. Swim suits optional."

"As soon as we can. That's a promise."

The remainder of the drive passed in comfortable quiet. Victoria's mind automatically ticked over the steps necessary to a good field operation. 

_Understand desired outcome. Employ effective communication. Motivate team. Model standard of behavior. Threaten the fucking shit out of anyone whose behavior deviates from achieving the desired outcome. Visit apocalyptic violence on the enemy._

In spite of the caliber of personnel heading toward a small airport in the middle of nowhere America, this was not a full-tilt, all-stops-removed exercise in tradecraft. If that day ever came, Victoria still had peeps in reserve, and a Swiss bank account full to bursting of favors owed.

Thoughts of Ivan, of Ivan's injuries, were pushed aside. When Cooper parked their vehicle on the tarmac adjacent to a small landing strip, Victoria was mentally organized and ready to direct the troops.

Apocalypse. Such an overblown, over-used word. Much like retired.

Victoria followed William Cooper onto the waiting cargo plane with a half-smile on her lips, and mayhem in her heart.

  


**CARDEN: WHAT DO YOU PROPOSE?**

Cowbird was a medium-sized plane, of indeterminate classification and unrecognizable manufacture, although Carden thought there might be Cessna in her genealogy. Carden followed the Maynards into the pot-bellied plane's interior. There were four groups of two seats, with a narrow aisle running between them toward the cockpit. Carden hung back as Cooper joined McAlpine in the cockpit. Rose and Angel, Tony and Victor, Natasha, Sarah, Charity and Victoria took the formal seating. 

"We're on the wall." Moses and Boggs wedged themselves onto the narrow ledge against the airplane's outer skin. 

"Have a seat, Carden. It is just Frank, isn't it? Not Francis?" Boggs ignored Moses' punch on his arm. "Wouldn't be right to have two Francis-es on an op."

"Just Frank. But you can call me Mr. Carden." The airplane steel was cold against his back. Carden groped for a bungie restraint and fastened it across his chest.

"I've heard of you." Boggs' odd eyes seemed to be looking both up and down simultaneously, focused in the general direction of the crates and cargo in the back half of the plane. "You're the one who took out that senator's kid -- the pedo-pediatrician."

Carden let his eyes drift over the crates secured between their position and the opposite wall, and ignored Boggs observation. There were now officially too many people involved in their enterprise. While he thought it might be interesting to work with Victoria, he'd reached the point where he only wanted to kill his target, collect and deposit his fee, then go fishing alone.

"I know how you feel." Moses' quiet voice barely carried over the sound of engines racing for takeoff. "Victoria's entourage can be overwhelming."

Fortunately there was too much ambient noise for Carden to feel it was necessary to reply to the nearly psychic comment. He pulled back his sleeve and glanced at his watch. They continued to make remarkably good time, from bomb escape to tactical airlift. He appreciated the hell out of that. Nothing said _professional_ like superior mobilization skills.

Time passed. Less than an hour in the air, and Cowbird shivered, shuddered, and began to lose altitude. They hit some kind of paved surface with a small jounce and whine of stringently applied brakes. 

"Soft landing. Not bad." 

The air that punched through into the cabin when Moses opened the boarding door was cold, fresh, and a little wet. Air that had never touched city streets filled Carden's lungs, waking discarded memories of the job that had resulted in his retirement from the work force. He admitted to himself he wasn't keen on getting back into wilderness and the forest. Different threads of causality seemed to apply in urban and rural areas. Outside, he discovered Cowbird was perched at the end of a very short, glistening black runway, very near to an oversized pole building. Two smudged panel-vans, dun-colored under dim exterior spotlights, cozied up to one side of the building.

"Earbuds. Everyone gets a pair." Victoria beckoned them into the partially-opened pole building. "Van 1 has Piotr and his equipment, Frank, Marvin, Sarah, and Carden with me. Van 2 has Natasha, Cooper, Regina and the Maynards. Those in Van 2 will assault the front of the target. Select members of Van 1 personnel will enter through the rear of the target. Piotr ––"

"There appears to be camera equipment and special lighting located in this area of the house." Piotr's fingers moved over a tablet, and the air at eye-level bloomed into blue and green imagery. "Intel is: James' instructions are to make a snuff film, with Aleksandra as the lead. Directives from Maimonides say: _Let her die on camera._ "

"What's to prevent James from simply putting a bullet into her brain when we breach?" Boggs' question was simple. Insightful.

Piotr grinned and waved his hands. New patterns danced in the air. "Ground radar, thermal scans, lidar." His fingers traced a 3-D skeleton blueprint. "Stairs to the basement just off the studio room, and an underground tunnel that terminates here. We shall encourage him to make a rapid escape, and steal even the seconds he would need to make decision to kill Aleksandra." 

Carden's eyes darted between the holographic images. "That basement tunnel exits into the woods, toward the back of the property. Were you going to answer Mr. Boggs' question?"

"Kitty. Kitty will stop him." 

The merest brush of air against his face, the smallest, barely audible hum of sound. When Carden found the source, after several seconds of trying to pinpoint the cause of the sensation, he squinted and cocked his head to one side. "That's . . . interesting."

Beautiful was the word that followed _interesting_ in his evaluation of the small automaton that hovered a few inches in front of his nose. A shape that contained no color but the colors of air: off-white, grey and diffuse saffron. A shape with an elliptical silver-platinum silhouette, and a minuscule spot of pure ruby where a live creature's throat would be located. "Kitty is a drone."

"Kitty is much more." Victoria touched Piotr's hand, and the holograms folded into themselves and disappeared. 

"Visual and audible recon and more," Piotr agreed. "Kitty can deliver three half-second laser strikes on a target, strong enough to raise a second-degree burn where she hits. I usually target eyes. My daughter is more skilled at maneuvering . . . but I do not suck."

"Motivational." Carden shook his head in wonder. These people. "You're sending a drone in there to save a woman's life."

"Yes. A most excellent opportunity for a field test. Get the weaponry off the airplane. We're leaving in 10 minutes." Victoria spun on her heel and headed toward Van 1. "Mr. Carden. With me. William will bring you a weapon."

Under the yellow overhead light in the van, Victoria looked tired and rather older than he had previously thought her to be. 

"You want to take James."

"James is my target. He's my paycheck." Carden saw the slight nod of understanding. "You don't care who kills him."

"I really don't." She smiled, and age dropped away, revealing a strong, gamine, classically English bone-structure and pair of sexy blue eyes. "Just so the bugger gets dead, I really don't."

Carden smiled. "What do you propose?"

  


**REGINA: IF YOU GO TO WAR, PRAY ONCE**

It was a lot like the movies, except no chase scene, no threat to characters on screen had ever spiked Regina's adrenalin and awareness of mortality to this extent. A slight tremor ran along her fingers as she exchanged her earbud for a wireless headset.

"Will be okay." Piotr's eyes gleamed with male amusement and reassurance. He handed Rose an identical headset with an identical leer.

"Regina wishes she could be out with the assault teams. I don't." Rose took a seat in front of the monitors, next to Piotr's station. "I can use a gun, but guns are rubbish. Except when Mr. Maynard uses them," she added with a small, superior smile. "How may we be of assistance, Piotr?"

The air in the van moved constantly, interior fans cooling some of the tech. But still, there was a closeness that Regina had to force herself to accept. She sat in the last empty seat, next to Rose, and ran a quick visual inspection of the video feeds.

"I will fly Kitty. Rose, you will watch interior feeds. Regina, exterior feeds. If something unexpected develops, give yelp."

"Give a yell," Rose said, absently. She shot a quick look over her shoulder to the place where Angel had curled into a welter of coats and gone to sleep. "How old is your daughter, Piotr?"

"Have two daughters. Young mad scientist is five years of age. Daughter of yet unknown talents is eight months of age."

Conversation about children washed over Regina without leaving memorable flotsam or jetsam. She stared at the feeds from the land around the house. Nothing appeared to move or change.

Aunt Vee had, with the parental Mountjoys' permission, taught Regina about gun safety at an early age. Consequently, Regina was familiar with a fair number of hand guns. Truth be told, she found the cross bow to be a more interesting weapon. Improving her accuracy on Grand Fenwick's small range had been something of a hobby for Regina, until she left for university. Since that time she hadn't done much shooting. And she had never aimed at, let alone deliberately tried to shoot, a living creature. A trusty PR-24 and ASP -- and recently a taser -- had proved sufficient to meet the offensive needs of Regina's extracurricular activities.

"They are in position." Piotr's fingers twitched over his keyboard. "Front and rear. External feed imagery is captured and looped. Waiting for word from Nike, and confirmation from Cooper and Moses."

"That weapon Mr. Boggs will deploy. It's the reason the teams are grouped on the east end of the house?" 

" _Ruchnoy Protivotankovyy Granatomyot._ Massive Overkill," Piotr said, answering Rose's question with a shrug. "Will make big absence where garage currently exists. Will need fine aim not to expand absence into crucial areas of house."

Regina and Rose both nodded in unison. Not only was Aleksandra going to be uncomfortably blast-adjacent, but the plan depended on front and back teams blowing entry doors at the same moment of Marvin's (hopefully) surgical strike on the attached garage.

"Let loose our feline." Victoria's voice came over the van's interior speakers.

Piotr placed a pair of wrap-around goggles over his eyes. "Ladies: I will not be able to see exterior feeds. Anything that deviates -- anything! -- give verbal input immediately. Team 1? Team 2?"

"Go."

"Go."

"Kitty is on the prowl."

It took every bit of self-discipline Regina had not to let her eyes stray to Piotr's monitors, to his fingers, which were performing what looked like a bit of Mozart on his keyboard. 

The basic campaign was simple. After Piotr breached the house and positioned Kitty, he would interrupt surveillance cameras and substitute benign, misleading looped footage of _nothing happening here!_ Front and rear teams would place explosive charges around entry door frames. As soon as Kitty had eyes on Aleksandra, if there were no unexpected developments, Piotr would give the "Go!" Boggs would blow the garage at the same time as front and rear teams blew the entry doors.

"Kitty down chimney. Needs sweep," Piotr muttered. "Kitty traversing living area. Door to "film studio" closed. Opposition body positioned beside front window . . . now moving to kitchen area. Kitty deploying magnet screwdriver for heating vent . . . abort . . ."

Regina risked a side-long glance at the monitors in front of Piotr, but saw only a patchwork of imagery.

"Vent removal unnecessary. Door into studio has opened and closed. Kitty is in studio. Transmitting interior."

An inset screen irised into existence at the bottom right corner of Regina's feeds. It appeared that Kitty had a premium overhead position for the improvised film studio. 

"Oh, my goodness," Rose said. "I wouldn't want to be one of those men, when Aleksandra manages to get access to a weapon."

"Da." Piotr's voice was nearly inaudible above the soft white-noise of the van's interior machinery. "Nike -- I . . ."

"You can do this, Piotr. You're still better than your daughter, although how long that will continue I'm unwilling to predict. Concentrate." 

_Affection. Understanding. Pride._ Regina thought it was as much the sound of Victoria's voice as the words that visibly stiffened Piotr's backbone.

"Affirmative, Nike. I suggest they leave her someone to kill, however."

"Understood."

One of Regina's rescue brigade members had a tendency to waffle on about _example_ and _agency_ during the planning phase of their missions. Regina understood this dialogue was part of the woman's mental process, a way to prepare for battle. Personally, she found the constant repetition of social buzzwords to be rather tiresome, if sound in concept. It just seemed odd to Regina that it would be necessary to make speeches affirming a woman's ability to analyze, choose, and act. 

But then, she had come to realize her gender standards were somewhat unusual, and her early role models all fairly extraordinary women who taught by example.

Dulcinea Mountjoy Hero. Politician, economist and entrepreneur . . . Regina's mother was the creative genius behind the rebirth of a country. Micro-country, to be sure, but Grand Fenwick's business and political connections were now global. Regina had learned to evaluate information and people from her mother; she had learned the value of infrastructure maintenance, improvements, and how clever marketing could fund both categories. She had learned that a loving relationship with a clever, independent, supportive partner was something a woman could celebrate and cherish.

Victoria Winslow. Aunt Vee, a woman who moved in and out of global venues with casual, deadly elegance. She had often been a topic of conversation between Regina's parents, who over the years had incautiously let small ears hear words like _spy_ and _assassin_. Self-defense and the use of assorted weaponry, camouflage, concealment, and how to _avoid letting your date drink you under the table_ , were the educational tip of the Aunt Vee iceberg.

Natasha Miranova. Uncle Bear's cousin, a woman Regina's mother often affectionately referred to as _our Russian terminatrix._ From Natasha, Regina had learned the art of "requisitioning" items at need. Grapes "liberated" from the wine harvest made the best jelly. Perfectly balanced and assiduously sharpened knives made the best hand-to-hand weapons. Everything a woman needed for a five-day adventure could be packed into artfully tailored cargo pants and short leather boots. Natasha had also taught Regina some brutally effective self-defense maneuvers that had not been shared by Aunt Vee.

Although there hadn't been time to get to know Rose, it was apparent to Regina that Tony's 'mother' had attitude and skills that entered her into the extraordinary category. And Aleksandra Petrova . . . 

Intent on keeping her attention on exterior surveillance, Regina couldn't help but take micro-second looks at the thumbnail image hovering at the edge of her screens. Would she be able to keep her own head high and maintain an expression of supreme indifference (darkened with brooding intention), if her wrists were bound and chained to a hook in the ceiling? If, naked, her legs were strapped to the legs of a large wooden chair, could she keep her spine as straight? The position would be painful, cold, hard-edged and humiliating . . .

"James is located behind cameras. In addition to James, four bodies are inside room. One with cameras, two with weapons, one in costume . . ." Piotr paused for a moment, then continued. "I have notification from airport. Maimonides has landed."

"Is everyone ready?"

"Ready, Nike. Camera feed is looping. Breach team is invisible," Piotr said. "Cooper and Moses, countdown at 60 seconds."

"Countdown okay." Voices in unison acknowledged.

"Regina – is that man really wearing a Nixon mask and riveted codpiece?" Rose whispered, incredulously. "Wanker deserves to die. Badly."

"He is. And he does." Regina found she was holding her breath. On screen, figures appeared, seemingly from out of the lawn. "They've placed explosives on the doors, Piotr."

"No undue interest inside," Rose said. 

"Forty-five seconds, and we are at go."

  
**P.D. JAMES: AN IRRITATING CONCATENATION OF EVENTS**

_. . . there is no effect without a cause and often the smallest cause produces the greatest effects . . . - Voltaire_

Even an inexperienced eye would surely come to the conclusion that lighting in the 'studio' space Maimonides had acquired for the production of his revenge film was average to poor. James evaluated the staged scenario through the camera viewfinder, and found nothing to become excited about, certainly not from an artistic viewpoint. Naked women in chains were a dime a dozen in the business.

Mr. Poe, who had drawn the short straw to be cast as _rapist,_ hovered a few feet away from Petrova-in-restraints. James found he liked the visual counterpoint of Nixon mask and spiky leather codpiece. But the flesh and blood figure wearing those campy accoutrements _would_ distractingly wring his hands in a manner to detract from the image.

"Not that I can't do it, boss. But I have to ask, is it really necessary? One to the stomach and let her bleed out on camera . . . graphically simple, yet classic . . ."

Everyone was a critic, a yahoo with a better screen play. "Our employer has written the script, Mr. Poe. You will take direction, or I will shoot you in the codpiece."

"Right." Poe backed off a couple of steps. "But I'm taking her from behind, and my junk is getting nowhere near her mouth. You see the eyes on her?"

James had evaluated the expression in Petrova's eyes, and judged it to be splendidly visceral. He hoped the film would capture that expression. "I believe that will work."

"Boss --"

James drew his gun and turned his attention to Willy Grimm. His tech-minion was set up in a corner behind the camera. "Did you interrupt me, Mr. Grimm?"

"Sorry, boss." Willy tried to shrink down behind the tech array. One hand hovered near his ear, like a butterfly afflicted with Parkinson's. "It's the client. He's on the ground, and would like to take possession of his film in an hour."

"One. Hour." Undoubtedly, here was the downside of working with rabid amateurs. James took a very deep breath, abandoning the urge to glower at his minions and the larger world. "So. We are not making a Production, merely a Record. If I allocate 30 to 35 minutes for rape and torture, that will give us 10 minutes for death by blood loss. Apprise the client, Mr. Grimm: we will have the video record from two cameras ready for pickup in an hour. But he will have to arrange for the editing."

"Will do, boss."

P.D. James took a step away from the camera and found himself silently reciting a bit of the bard. 

_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts._

He was doomed to do business with amateurs who had no idea, no concept of what moved across the greater stage. He was doomed to look for financial support from people who had no idea where their blocking fell.

James moved back to take control of the main camera. "Is everyone ready?"  


**COOPER: KNOCK KNOCK**

_Countdown at 60 seconds._

_Package delivered. Ready here._ Maynard the Elder's voice sounded quiet, almost bored. He had placed the explosives, then cleared the front yard with a smooth, speed-walking stride and disappeared into the greenery.

_Package delivered._ Moses was already putting distance between himself and the back door.

"Countdown okay." Cooper tapped his ear toggle and held out both hands impatiently. "Give it up, Boggs. You're with Moses and Sarah, headed to the basement."

Boggs' hands tightened on the gun. He frowned, eyes seeming to roll in slightly different directions. "You're sure you know where to put the shot? That garage is stick-built."

"I know exactly where to put the shot. Clock is ticking. We both need to be in place."

Boggs reluctantly released his death grip on the bit of oversized artillery he was clumsily trying to hug against his chest. "Just clip the southeast corner, or you'll screw our entry."

"Teach your grandmother, Marvin." Conscious of seconds passing, Cooper took the massive gun and walked quickly toward the edge of windbreak behind the house. Lawn stretched past this point, empty for a good 40 yards, providing an unobstructed view to the rear of the house. 

_Forty-five seconds. We are at go._

Cooper aimed the gun at the corner of the garage. "We are at go." 

Piotr's feed was momentarily silent. It seemed to Cooper that the entire world held its breath and waited.

_Three._

Cooper shouldered the gun and sighted with a smooth, seamless motion. It was like playing a good game of pool -- knowing exactly where the shot should be aimed, should be banked . . .

_Two._

Cooper's finger flexed against the trigger.

_Go._

Four-fifths of the garage disintegrated and fell inward.

The big-ass gun fell to the ground, and Cooper was running to join Moses, Boggs and Sarah.

  
**VICTORIA: WHOSE WOODS THESE ARE**

_Three._

Piotr's quiet voice inside her ear seemed unhurried, intimate. 

Victoria put eye to rifle scope and waited. She lay beside a massive oak trunk with her rifle propped on a moss-cemented bit of deadfall. The land around the house was covered with predominately broadleaf hardwood forest, mixed with random conifer. Floor detritus was heavy, and a bit damp. It would make running difficult, and tracking easy. 

Victoria took a deep breath, appreciating the earthy forest cocktail of aromas that filled the air around her, and patiently waited for the count to progress.

_Two._

Carden was somewhere behind her, to the north. She could _feel_ him waiting, could almost pinpoint his location with her spy sense -- that intuitive gut and muscle knowledge honed over years of lurking and surveilling. She had given Carden the premier shooting location, and positioned herself to act as clean-up in the event that James had other thugs running fore or aft on his course of retreat. Victoria had no doubt other bodies would lead the flight from the hidden exit location.

Loose and alert, Victoria poked at the knowledge that she had placed an unusual amount of trust in Carden. 

An action had been taken that could not stand. James had _shot_ Ivan. 

This fact automatically awarded the bugger a winning ticket in the "Winslow Sudden Death Sweepstakes." Normally, Victoria would deliver the prize. But whether it was because Carden reminded her so vividly of Joe, or because Piotr had assured them that Carden's impeccable record translated as _death personified,_ Victoria had decided to let Carden have first chance at taking his contract.

_One. Go._

WHHOOMPHFFF.

The earth beneath her hipbones shivered. A few random dead leafs, last year's leftovers, floated down to join the detritus.

_Breach achieved,_ Piotr reported in a controlled monotone. _Kitty's laser activated. I have hits on James: forehead, cheek and gun hand. Target has abandoned Petrova, and is accessing exit. Remaining bodies are following James, or attempting exit via basement stairway._

Victoria smiled. She stared through her scope at the false stump hiding the house's basement exit, and felt time and space shift to a mellow idle. In the suspended silence, she admitted that she had compartmentalized a private, niggling concern that James might ignore Kitty's laser burns and persevere in his mission -- or that one of his thugs would follow an instruction to shoot Petrova if things went pear-shaped. 

But James had chosen to scarper down the rat hole, and his hench people were in disarray.

_Team one is clearing the basement stairs . . . Please retrieve Kitty; her visual location is on your goggles camera. Do not step on her, Mr. M!_

Moses, Boggs and Sarah for the mop-up. Victoria's finger stroked the trigger of her rifle. 

The first head out of the faux-stump was inconsequential. Victoria let the man slink past her into the woods. There would be time . . . Somewhere, nearby, a grouse drummed its wings and erupted skyward. Forest quiet followed, ambient wind over wood restoring environmental calm. Seconds passed. A long, dark length of person rolled away from the stump hatch and crawled into forest cover.

Clothing and skin camo, and it wasn't P.D. James. Victoria was sure of her identification. She waited. Extended quiet followed the skillful exit. That one was going south-easterly, following the first escapee. A brace of thugs that could easily be bagged later.

Smoke-scent, acrid and clinging, rose in a light haze from the exit and drifted low into the surrounding forest. Victoria's eyes caught the half-moon, reflective surface of a rifle scope as soon as it showed above ground level. P.D. James, and rifle, came out of the hole in a single, sinuous movement. He wriggled away from the stump, into a sea of bracken.

Lamb would have applauded that exit, Victoria thought with nostalgic appreciation. James was clever and cautious, someone who knew how to move through a wooded area with minimal impact. She watched him through her scope until he disappeared around the stand of pine.

Waiting, Victoria realized it wasn't so very quiet in the forest. Wind creaked and moaned between tree branches, and rustled in the bracken. It was just that forest sounds were so understated that the environment made her feel rather -- rather irritated. The nearly inaudible **PFFFT** and full-volume **BLLT BLLT** of a double tap that followed, eased that irritation. 

Victoria waited to a count of twenty, then rolled to her feet.

"You going to get the two that headed toward the road?" Carden appeared from around the pines, frowning the same way Joe used to frown.

"There's two of them." Victoria stood. She brushed away pine needles from her knees. "One for each of us." She touched the control on her earpiece. "Primary down. Rounding up strays. How is?"

_All is well._ Piotr's voice sounded justifiably smug. _Maimonides' vehicles have reversed course. Skystrike is active and locked. Target's current position will result in no collateral damage, except to forest._

Carden cocked his head to one side, locking eyes with her. "Skystrike. Is Piotr talking about what I think he's talking about?"

Victoria shrugged. "What's the point of having a tech guru if you don't let him spread his wings now and then. Ivan made a poor judgment when he let Maimonides walk away from Moscow. I'm not going to compound that mistake after the bugger put two bullets in Ivan."

"I get that." The trail of disturbed leaves was easy to follow. Carden hesitated when the trail went around a pile of brush, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Piotr has control of the UN Medusa array?" 

"At the very least," Victoria whispered back. "Road ahead."

"Take that shot and a whole lot of people going to be mad at you."

"More than mad." Victoria stopped moving. She listened to the forest for a long minute. "Do you have anyone in your life that you love so much you'd throw down with all the princes and principalities on earth?"

"Ah." Carden's dimples made a brief appearance. "Sadly, no. But I do get the concept. And it has been a rare pleasure to meet you all."

Victoria touched her earpiece. "Skystrike is a go, Piotr. Wait for us at the end of the driveway."

**Author's Note:**

> Who are they?
> 
> Mr. Hector comes to the Hotel James Hilton due to an unexpected change of employment. The high point of his career was as concierge at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. The low point of his career was meeting young Kevin McCallister. (Home Alone 2)
> 
> Frank Carden is a professional assassin with a spotless kill record . . . until his handler betrays him and an unexpected car accident interferes with a contract. (The Contract 2006)
> 
> Victor Maynard is a lonely assassin, from a family of assassins. Rose is an art thief and con artist, and is Victor's latest target. Tony is a clueless drifter who gets caught up in events, during which Victor decides to rescue Rose from the intentions of a second assassin. Between the three of them threats are neutralized. Victor and Rose fall in love, get married, and beget a beautiful son, Angel. Who may, or may not have killed the family cat. (Wild Target, 2009)
> 
> Regina Mountjoy Hero is the first daughter of Alexander Hero and Dulcinea Mountjoy. Victoria Winslow is her godmother, Ivan Simanov is her godfather. As a child she was more interested in animals than she was in people, and left her home in Grand Fenwick (which had a limited number of animal species within its small borders) to study in England. She is a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine, and animal rights activist. (Alexander Hero - The Hand of Mary Constable and Too Many Ghosts, by Paul Gallico; Dulcinea Mountjoy - OC, daughter of Count Rupert Mountjoy from Grand Fenwick based on The Mouse That Roared, by Leonard Wibberley)
> 
>  
> 
> The good guys:  
> (RED, RED2)  
> Victoria Winslow, (retired MI6 agent), sharpshooter, wetworks specialist (played by Helen Mirren)  
> Ivan Simanov, Ambassador for the Russian Federation in Washington, (retired? KGB agent) (played by Brian Cox)  
> Frank Moses, (retired CIA agent) black bag jobs, wetworks, assassination (played by Bruce Willis)  
> Marvin Boggs (retired CIA agent) black bag jobs, assassination, wetworks (played by John Malkovich)  
> William Cooper, director of the CIA, (played by Karl Urban)  
> Natasha Mironova, cousin to Ivan Simanov, (retired? KGB agent) (played by Monica Bellucci)
> 
> (Wild Target - 2009)  
> Victor Maynard, assassin (played by Bill Nighy)  
> Rose Maynard, art thief (retired?), mother (played by Emily Blunt)  
> Angel Maynard, child  
> Tony Maynard, son (adopted) of Victor and Rose, assassin in training (played by Rupert Grint)
> 
> (OC based on Leonard Wibberly characters)  
> Regina Victoria Hero, (played by Gemma Arterton)veterinarian, daughter of Dulcinea Mountjoy Hero (former prime minister of Grand Fenwick) and Alexander Hero (ghost breaker, diplomat, inventor - deceased) (played by David Tennant)
> 
> Piotr (Vasiliy Sergeevich Stepanov) and Irina (played by
> 
> (The Contract - 2006)  
> Frank Carden, (retired special forces), assassin (played by Morgan Freeman)
> 
> (Adam Diment novels)  
> Philip McAlpine (retired spy, drug runner, pilot) (played by Paul Bettany)
> 
> Aleksandra Petrova (Renata Litvinova)
> 
> The bad guys:  
> Thierry Maimonides (played by  
> Mr. P.D. James (played by Christopher Walken)  
> Mr. Allan Poe (played by Dennis Hopper)  
> Mr. Art Machen (  
> Brothers Grimm (Mark Wahlberg & Matt Damon)  
> Brothers Karamasov (
> 
> Extras:  
> Mr. Hector, (played by Tim Curry)  
> Bernice Tiddly, (played by Carol Kane)


End file.
